Disambiguation
by radishface
Summary: CHAPTER 5 UP. With high school graduation right around the corner, Richie is juggling with a slew of issues. Going to college means that he and Virgil will be leading separate lives-- something he's not sure he's ready for.
1. Hats Off!

**Disambiguation**

_Disclaimers: Static Shock does not belong to me. Please don't sue… I am but a poor student struggling to make ends meet. _

_Summary: Nobody said that college was ever going to be easy, especially you're in denial about an unrealized, unresolved, potential long-distance relationship with your best friend from back home. SLASH, Virgil/Richie, among other pairings. _

**Radishface**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Hats Off! **

Richie knows that he should be smiling. Virgil is up there on the podium, dressed all in red, salutatorian of Dakota Union High, poised to give his speech, eyes blazing with excitement. Virgil's face is a little bit flushed as he begins, voice hesitant at first but gaining strength, until his voice fills the auditorium in all its charisma and sincerity and a thousand smiling faces looking down at him. Virgil is popular, for his easy smiles and his easy humor and his way of putting people at ease, but also for his broad shoulders, dark skin, angular physique. And when Virgil finishes, Freida comes up next, valedictorian and editor of the school paper, delivering a politically charged speech that offends some and elicts whoops from others. Afterwards, Freida takes a spot next to Virgil onstage, and they smile at each other.

It doesn't matter to Richie that the principal is calling the names now; he sees what he sees. He can see Virgil's fingers intertwined with Freida's beneath the sleeves of their dark graduation robes. Richie swallows and looks away, hands fidgeting in his lap, as he whispers a crude, distracted comment or two to Jamie Forrester and Ian Foster about the state of their principal's toupee. They giggle, receptive to any joke; graduation ceremonies are often dull, and this one is no exception. It shouldn't bother Richie to see Virgil with another girl; Virgil has been pining after Freida since the first day of high school, and Daisy has served as a welcome intermission for as long as she's been around. There have been other girls in between, none of them sticking around for very long, for Virgil has a unusual talent for being exceptionally flaky—but there has been no denying his popularity with the ladies ever since he finally let a bit of Static into his Virgil persona, air of easy confidence and strength coloring the way he acted at school. But when Richie sees Virgil whisper something in Freida's ear, Richie is weak with jealousy, knowing that she will be the recipient of Virgil's kisses this summer.

As for Richie, Richie goes about the same way that he used to, slightly off-beat and awkward, he's still awkward now even though he's as tall as he ever will be and both his balls have dropped and his voice no longer spikes between soprano and tenor. Becoming a super-genius makes no difference in his social life; if anything, it has drawn him further into himself. Everybody knows that Richie is smart, too smart to be stuck at Dakota Union High, and most of them leave him alone well enough. It isn't to say that Richie is a total loser or anything, just that he doesn't invite company the same way that Virgil does. Strangely enough, his reclusiveness lends him an air of mystery that makes him attractive to girls; Richie had been on dates, of course, double dates with V, often, here at the movie theater, there at the diner, trips to the shopping mall. V usually brings Daisy and Richie, well, Richie will bring his Monster of the Day, so to speak. He only speaks when it seems necessary, not shy of small talk, but not fond of it. His dates will leave with disappointed, high impressions of him; _Richie Foley, he doesn't talk, but he has a lot going on. Richie Foley, that guy's got to have some horrible secret past or something, Richie Foley, what a tragic character! _

He is happy spending his time in the Gas Station tinkering away at things for Gear and Static. Lately he's been tweaking the speed settings in his rocket boots and is trying to make Virgil's disk more aerodynamic; Richie hasn't cared to discern whether he is driven by a subconscious desire for motion, for flight, or by simple innovating whimsy.

It will all be over soon, anyways, he might as well give into this last bit of indulgence. He and V—they don't talk about it much—college, that is.

Richie knows, Richie knows with all his heart, that they can not depend on each other like they have. There is a big difference, a thin line, between watching someone's back and looking over his shoulder excessively. This is their time to go their separate ways, for once. How different it will be.

He feels his eyes sting, he feels his throat hitch. Beside him, Jamie Forrester jabs his arm with her elbow and makes a quick, short motion up at the podium; the principal has called his name. It's his turn to go up. And so Richie gets up, and walks toward the stage accompanied by the weary applause of the audience; he has his head held high; inside, he's hobbling. He shakes the hand of the principal, two vice principals, dean of student affairs, the student council advisor, the hall monitor advisor, the head of the janitorial staff, the head chef of the cafeteria, the dean of administration, and the president of the student council with grave determination.

Then the next one standing there is Virgil, in all his red-robed, salutatorian glory, who has his hand already stretched out. Virgil's there, his eyes shining with pride, not patronizing, not directed at Richie, but alight for them both. Richie can barely keep his eyes on him, not when he's feeling like this, and his hand comes out automatically to shake Virgil's.

"You did good, bro," Virgil says, and Richie smiles weakly, weak because of Virgil's smile, because his hand is tired from shaking everybody else's hand, because he is thinking about their futures—their plural _futures_, with a S, because they won't be sharing one, not really, not anymore. Richie realizes he is being melodramatic, that the sting behind his eyes is returning with a vengeance.

"Yeah," he manages, and wrenches his eyes away.

Freida shakes his hand with a firm grip, a practiced "congratulations," and a smile that will be pasted onto her face for the next four-hundred-twenty-seven students. Richie almost feels sorry for her. Almost.

He walks back down the aisle and takes his seat with a sigh, clutching at his diploma with loose fingers. He zones out, sugarplum fractals dancing through his head, as the rest of the students go up, one by one. When _Zhou, Jay_ is finally called, the entire auditorium breaks loose into thunderous stomping, clapping and cheering. Jay Zhou turns onstage, emboldened by the loudest burst of applause yet, and tears off his robe, launching his graduation cap high into the air.

Richie follows suit, throwing his cap up and out, watching it swing around, tassels flailing wildly, the blue one for the National Honors Society, the yellow one for the Dakota Scholarship Federation, the silver one for the Ocean Science Bowl, the gold one for being in the top ten of the graduating class.

His cap hits Virgil square in the face, and now Richie can smile. Virgil catches it on the rebound and looks around wildly, dreads whipping around his face, and then he spots Richie in the crowd, and flings it right back at him, laughing and flipping him off with both hands.

Richie catches the cap and sticks his tongue out at V, feels his heart surge with benevolence for Freida, compassion for Daisy, forgiveness for his father and all the Bang Babies that ever existed and would exist. The crowd keeps getting louder and louder, and Richie feels his voice join theirs, and suddenly there's a mass exodus toward the exit doors, and Richie is pulled along, feet pounding as he runs, his voice hoarse from screaming, shedding caps and robes and respect along the way.

He almost falls down in the stampede, but a hand reaches out to steady him, pushing him along, keeping him on his feet. Richie is not surprised when he looks up to see Virgil running along beside him, wild grin on his face and cheeks flushed with excitement and a sheen of sweat that's making him glow, or maybe it's unchecked voltage, because Virgil can get that way sometimes, when he's really happy, when he's out of control, he'll start to shine like that, abandoned in his joy. No, Richie is not surprised to see Virgil by his side.

He is not surprised when he realizes, in this riot of mindlessly screaming and running people, that he loves Virgil, loves him as everything and for anything, loves him until his heart will burst from it. He is not surprised by the intensity of the feeling, or the sudden burst of adrenaline it gives him, pumping him to run faster, harder, as if he's trying to break out of his own skin.

Richie is surprised by the total, abject grief of the feeling.

"Rich, man!" Virgil howls, skipping around breathlessly, "we did it! It's over! _It's over!_"

Cosmic irony, Richie thinks, has a cruel, literary sense of timing. And he has no choice but to grin back.

* * *

Two months ago, at the beginning of April, well after March madness had taken hold and passed through Dakota with a whirlwind fury, Richie remembered coming home (not going to the Gas Station, for once) and turning on the television. He'd been flipping through the channels when his mother had gone outside to get the mail. Two minutes later, he heard a surprised yelp, and Richie dropped the remote with a startled clatter and rushed outside to the front porch.

"Mom?! What happened?"

His mother's back was to him, and her tiny frame was shaking. She turned around and looked at him through her glasses, a pointed look, and Richie saw the Big Envelope in her hands, pressed against her chest.

"The last two schools, Richie," she said. "Come on, let's go inside."

Richie didn't look to see the return address on the Big Envelope—he held his breath until they were safely in the kitchen, and his mother dropped the mail on the table. They just stared at the envelope—the big one.

"Look, look," his mother was saying, as if Richie hadn't already looked at it himself. "Look, from MIT—"

It was a big, white envelope, bigger than a standard manila folder, clean and pressed as if it had been delivered from the president of MIT himself. Richie shook his head, feeling as if a million synapses were firing off in his head at once. Which they probably were.

"Yeah," he said, and felt himself sniffle. _Shit._

"You did it, Richie!" His mother pulled him into her arms and smothered him in a huge embrace. "You really did it!"

"Mom," he toned, feeling a smile break out on his face, "you know, it might just be a really thick rejection letter."

His mother stepped back, horror spreading over her features for a split second before she started to laugh.

Richie pushed the envelope from MIT off to the side of the table with a sigh. "Let's leave it for when dad gets back."

"You want to call him right now?"

Richie shrugged, "I don't want to interrupt him while he's at work. Plus, it'll be a nice surprise for him when he gets back."

"All right," his mother said, pressing her hands together. "And look—you have another letter. It's a small one." She handed it to him. "But it really doesn't matter, does it? I mean—"

Richie took the small, ivory-colored envelope from his mother, noted the crimson coloring of the return address before opening it up. "Dear Mr. Foley," he read, "we regret to inform you that out of over 15,000 applicants…" Richie looked up in surprise. "It says that I've been waitlisted."

"Really?" His mom looked over his shoulder at the letter. "Oh, but… we don't have to bother with Harvard now, do we? You got into the school of your choice!"

"Yeah," Richie put the letter down on the table and closed his eyes for a moment. "'K, mom. I'm going to go up to my room now. And freak out for a little bit."

And he did. Not so much the freaking out part as the going up to his room part, because Richie had already known that he would get into MIT. The CIA director he had been assisting on busting a particularly nasty human sex trafficking ring five months ago turned out to be on the board of directors of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Gear hadn't given anything away, but Richie would bet a million dollars that Director Milgram hadn't let Gear's background check slip by without a full-on investigation.

But now—now what?

As if on cue, his Shock Vox buzzed. "Rich," Virgil said, voice fuzzy through the static. "Yo, you there?"

Richie sank down into his bed and flipped the receiver on. "What's up, V?"

"Don't give me that." Virgil said, tone clipped. "I know you checked your mail, dude. What's the verdict?"

Richie ran to his window and threw it open. "V? Where the hell are you? I've heard of house surveillance but this is ridiculous, dude."

"Relax." Virgil said over the Vox, "I'm not checking out your house. I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"So you were checking _me_ out, then," Richie quipped. "I'm so flattered."

"Richie, come on, man, I want to know where you got in—"

"Well, if you want to know, the window's wide open." Richie took a step back into his room. "See you anytime."

Silence, and then the Shock Vox clicked off. Five minutes later, Virgil was climbing through his window, in his civilian clothes.

"Gutsy, dude."

"Hey," Virgil huffed, "I didn't have time to get changed, all right? Plus, why would Static be in a suburban neighborhood in the middle of the day?"

"Bonnie from next door is smoking pot and having underaged sex with her boyfriend Jake. Static: Dakota's anti-drug. Come on, V, I thought we planned out your image campaign already."

Virgil ignored the comment. "I ran over here as fast as I could. Can you blame me for not using the ivy to climb up? I'm just using my God-given talents."

"The Book of Matthew, 25:29." Richie mused. "Very classy, Virgil. But God didn't give you your powers."

"Big Bang, Creation, God, same thing." Virgil said, and sighed. "Come on, Rich. I just wanna know… but you're really avoiding the subject—"

"MIT." Richie spat out, not waiting for Virgil to finish his sentence.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Well," Virgil said carefully, after a long pause, "that's good, right?"

Richie closed his eyes, felt a headache start and then ebb away. "I guess," he whispered. "It's not _bad_."

"Yeah," Virgil said, voice still tentative. "And it's still on the East Coast. Our campuses aren't so far away, either. Lemme think—by Amtrak, it's only… like a four-hour train ride, or something."

"That's like half a day."

"Four hours isn't half a day, dude."

"Half a day," Richie said, irritated, "like half of the time when the sun's out."

Virgil gave him another careful look. Richie was sick of it. He turned over on his bed to face the wall. "I'm sorry, V," Richie said, suddenly tired. "I just—" He heard Virgil walk over, sit down on the edge of his bed. Virgil put a hand on his arm, squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. Richie suppressed a shiver.

"I just—" He felt defeated. "You know how it is."

_I'm going to miss you. I'm going to feel like dying, I'm going to miss you that much. I… I… know it. _

Virgil nodded, and Richie lay on his bed and Virgil sat there with his hand on Richie's arm, thumb rubbing circles in soothing motions. He moved his hand up, touching Richie's shoulder, then the base of his neck, lingering there, and Richie felt his heart in his throat, clamoring to be let out. What did he want to say? He wanted to say something—

Then Virgil fingers were in his hair, and Richie didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe, except that would be too conspicuous, wouldn't it? His ears were pounding and he could barely hear anything, and was that just a jolt of electricity that coursed through his skull? Now Virgil was trying to fry him?

"You're tense, Rich." Virgil said, voice catching. "I just—let me try something."

Richie nodded wordlessly, resisting the urge to curl into a fetal position. Virgil's fingers hovered over his hair, barely grazing it, and then Richie felt it. A slow spread of warmth, from the base of his skull and down his spine, then through his legs. It paused in his kneecaps, and then continued to his feet. His abdomen warmed pleasantly and his heart slowed its wild pace and a smile cross his face despite himself.

"Amazing," he breathed, keeping his eyes closed, not wanting the feeling to go away. He felt light, slightly buzzed, as if he were going to float away any second.

"Yeah," Virgil's voice came, sounding oddly far away. "It is."

Minutes passed, and then all of a sudden, he fell back down onto his bed with a crash.

"Oof!" Richie's eyes shot open. "Virgil? What the heck?"

Virgil's eyes were downcast, his brows knitted together as if in thought. "It was just an experiment. I thought I could probably do something like that."

"Well, I feel really—" Richie sat up quickly, and stretched his arms. "I feel kind of refreshed. Apart from having the air knocked out of me." He cast the other boy a half-hearted glare. "But what'd you do, exactly?"

"I just—" Virgil shrugged. "I learned somewhere that on top of producing oxygen for your body, your mitochondria also excessively ionize your body—so—"

"So you're telling me that you just flushed out all the bad ions in my body?"

"Yeah." Virgil grinned sheepishly. "Oh, and I made you float, too. But that was just sort of extra."

"I figured as much," Richie huffed. "Well,"

Virgil looked at him with something akin to expectation. Richie felt something warm course through his spine, and wondered if Virgil's homeopathic remedy had left some residual electricity floating around in his body.

"I think my mom's coming," Richie said, studiously avoiding Virgil's eyes. "You should probably go."

"Okay," Virgil said. He reached out and tipped Richie's face toward his, concern plain in his eyes. "Are you sure you're cool?"

Richie felt as if he'd been burned, and resisted the urge to jerk back from the sudden touch. "I'm fine, dude. Just need a little time to adjust to this whole… college acceptance thing."

Virgil took a step back, chuckling. "Sharon started _crying _when I got my acceptance letter from Columbia. Then a week later, she was bawling when the word from Yale came in. I didn't see what the big deal was."

"You've got to work on that modesty bit, there." Richie said, shaking his head. "It's not going to be attractive to all the rich white Connecticut folk you'll soon be fraternizing with. They want to see a homeboy in his place."

Virgil threw his arms open in a gesture of surrender, but his brazen grin gave his insincerity away. "I'm not trying to impress anybody, honestly. Virgil Hawkins is everything you need. That's the _truth_, not a front."

"I'll see you tonight on our watch, _Static._" Richie said pointedly, and waved him off to the window.

He watched Virgil vault their backyard fence and jog down the street, watched as Virgil looked back at Richie's window and waved. Richie waved back even though now Virgil's back was turned, and now he had disappeared around the corner. He felt a little ridiculous, standing at the window like this, like a forlorn princess bidding a suitor goodbye.

Richie caught himself before he could think of anything more embarrassing and promptly cast the thought out of his head.

* * *

I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter of _Disambiguation!_ This is the first bit of a much longer work and is also my first foray in the _Static Shock_ fandom; let me know if you think I should continue it! If anything is OOC, it's probably because I don't have a quite as fine grasp on the characters as I would like. I especially love concrit but welcome any and all feedback. Thanks very much for reading! 


	2. 1001 Nights

**Chapter 2: 1001 Nights (part I) **

Thanks for reading Chapter 2 of _Disambiguation_. I'm glad to get such good responses to the first chapter!  I especially love concrit but welcome any and all feedback, and am currently looking for a beta to help me with this piece. Thanks very much for reading!

**x x x x x **

"You can't win," Richie said, and his voice was a little hoarse. It was their fifth round of poker that evening; their bottles were empty, the sun had set outside and the room was lit with the dim light of one lamp in Richie's apartment. "You should fold."

"Make me." Virgil's eyes didn't leave his.

Richie reached across the table and started pulling on Virgil's cards. Virgil held on so tightly that he crushed the cards in his grip, and Richie tried grabbing again, but his hands went flying. With both hands he reached for Virgil's hands and pushed them on the table.

Virgil's cards scattered.

Richie ended up on Virgil's side of the table. There was the sound of fabric ripping. Virgil grabbed the back of his head as Richie grabbed his, and they didn't so much kiss as devour each other. Tongues in throats, chewing of lips, teeth scraping—

Now Virgil was out of his chair, and to hold him back Richie pressed him against the table. Richie tried to push him back across the top, so Virgil would be spread out before him, but Virgil resisted. He put all his weight into his stance and clutched Richie's arms to throw him back, and Richie's head knocked against the table with a sharp thud. They broke the kiss, and the look in Virgil's eyes was feral and hungry as he dug his fingers into Richie's skin, grasping at the collar of his shirt.

Richie clamped his hands down on Virgil's hips and half-lifted, half-shoved until his ass was on the table. Richie accidentally kneed Virgil, landing a couple on his stomach, as Virgil slid between his thighs. Wrapping his legs around Virgil, Richie arched and pushed against Virgil's chest, Virgil pushed Richie forward into the table. Richie kissed him again, not as rough this time, but still insistent, still hungry. Virgil's hands stopped pushing and started rubbing Richie's chest in circles.

They drew apart from the kiss, and Virgil looked at Richie: breathing hard, hair messed and sticking up, glasses askew, lips red and swollen from kissing. Richie's fingers ran up and down Virgil's chest, his thighs squeezed Virgil's hips. Richie could feel Virgil's dick, throbbing, beating against his pants, straining the fabric. Virgil nudged Richie's hands, positioned them over his dick, and leaned forward to whisper in Richie's ear.

"_Unzip me_."

Richie eyes shot open, sheets soaked with perspiration and pushed to the edge of his bed, his hands clamped down on his stomach and his dick half-hard in his boxers. Richie looked over at his clock. _3:18am_, it blinked.

He reached for his glasses on the nightstand and got up, turned on his computer. He waited it for it to boot up. He remembered the dream, and then he didn't. Then he checked his e-mail, read a little bit of the news. Another suicide bomber in the Middle East. Featured recipes for spring rolls. Trouble in Gotham, Batman uncovers underground drug ring. The ten most outrageous spring break stories. The FDA approved a new heart disease drug. His computer clock read _3:49am_ when he finished, and he went to the bathroom and took a piss.

He flushed the toilet and headed back to bed, fanning himself with his shirt, cranking open a window to let some fresh air in.

Richie wondered what had woken him up.

**x x x x x **

There was a rumor at Dakota Union High that if you stepped on the cracked cement tile back by the last row of bungalows out by the football field, you wouldn't get laid on prom night. Some said that you would flunk all your classes and wouldn't graduate or that the soda machines would always eat your dollar bills. Others predicted that stepping on the tile would get you the moldy locker next to the men's bathroom the next semester. It was all a matter of priority.

Richie remembered Virgil stepping on the crack back during his freshman year. They were just on his way out of statistics class with Ms. Mammoth Roberts (nicknamed "Mammoth" for her girth) when some of the senior football players had bowled him over on their way to practice. Virgil had dropped his books, fallen over, and crushed the sandwich in his backpack. Richie had helped him up when he realized that he was somehow sitting right on the Crack of High School Doom. Neither Virgil nor Richie thought much of it at the time, but when he was assigned the moldy locker next to the men's bathroom sophomore year and the soda machines mysteriously began to eat his one dollar bills, Virgil began to sense that something much more sinister was at play.

"Chill out, man." Richie reassured him one day at the Gas Station, when Richie's particle accelerator schematics on the wall were replaced by Virgil's drawings for the dimensions of a casket and a funeral guest list. "You're not going to die."

"Just watch me, Rich." Virgil was parked in front of the computer on some florist's website, deciding whether he wanted to have white lilies or chrysanthemums for his post-funeral dinner table centerpieces. "The whole reason I'm a meta-human is because I stepped on the Crack. My electrical powers are probably being accompanied by the growth of a gigantic malignant brain tumor. I'm going to die before I can graduate."

"It wouldn't be a brain tumor," Richie said evenly. "That would require a brain in the first place."

"And if I die before I graduate," Virgil's eyes lit up in terror, ignoring Richie's comment, "then that really _means_ that I won't get laid prom night! I don't even stand a chance!"

"I had no idea that kind of thing mattered to you, bro," Richie intoned dryly. "Been watching reruns of _American Pie_ again?"

"There's no way to fight it, dude." Virgil murmured _sotto voce_. "I'm doomed. I might as well not go to prom at all. No point in asking a girl out and spend all that money if I'm just going to die."

"And if you don't die, then what?" Richie cocked an eyebrow.

"Then," Virgil threw out his arms with a flourish, "I won't have to pay my credit card bills for the corsage, the prom tickets, the limo ride, the tux rental—I'll be _getting_ a bill. The best kind of bill. A bill of clean health."

"Okay, so you've been watching _Family Guy_ instead of _American Pie_," Richie said. "You definitely did not come up with that pun on your own." He paused. "Virgil, you don't even _have_ a credit card!"

"Mm," Virgil nodded, "so I'll have to pay with cash. Even worse. Plus, somebody needs to be out on patrol that night. Can't let Dakota just go to ruins because we're out having fun."

"Since when has that ever stopped you?" Richie crossed his arms. "Look, bro, I know you're nervous about getting a date—"

"I am not _nervous_ about getting a _date,_ Rich," Virgil huffed. "I just—don't see the point."

"It'll be fun for you," Richie said. "Come on, V."

Richie's eyes grew wide. "Have you even heard what some of the guys in our grade are doing? Wade planned a month-long scavenger hunt for his date that ended with a few dozen exploding basketballs at last week's big game and nearly got him kicked out of school! I can't pull off something like that."

"You can put on a romantic light show, or literally sweep her off her, or something." Richie shook his head. "V, these kinds of things are less elaborate than the battle plans in your head when Ebon challenges you to a showdown."

Virgil buried his face in his hands. "I don't even have anybody I like."

Richie felt his eyes bug out a little. "Hello? Frieda? _Daisy_?"

Virgil took a moment out of his self-pity to glare at Richie. "Bro, that's all old news."

"Frieda was your first crush here," Richie said, not without an edge in his voice. "You don't forget your firsts so easily."

Virgil held his gaze for a moment before breaking it off. "I'm going to ask Daisy."

Richie's hands curled at his sides. "Well, that's good." He turned around, heading to his lab bench. "At least you made up your mind."

He felt himself cool down—why was he so mad in the first place?—as he pulled out his power drill and set to work on his latest project—a modified Z Machine, the same kind as the one operated by Sandia National Laboratories in New Mexico. Richie had been losing a little sleep lately over the construction of the X-ray generator and desperately wished for a better lab so that he could test materials in conditions of extreme temperature and pressure, as opposed to in a highly volatile, decrepit abandoned gas station—but at the rate he was going, once he was finished, Virgil would have a new way of harnessing power altogether. The Z Machine in Albuquerque was used to gather data to aid in computer modeling of nuclear weapons, and could fire lasers from 20 million ampere discharges, producing plasmas with temperatures hotter than 2 billion Kelvins, but Richie was aiming to tweak the laser x-ray gun for a modest 20,000V wattage and a 30,000K temperature range. Not to mention it could provide a backup supply source for V if he shorted out during battle.

"Richie," Virgil said, and the blond snapped out of his reverie. "What about _you?_"

Richie sighed, slightly irritated with the interruption. "What _about_ me?"

"Are you going to prom?"

Richie froze momentarily, feeling the blood rush out of his face. Shit, he really hadn't thought about this at all; he was so worried about Virgil's melodrama that he hadn't even considered his own. Prom unsettled him: the tradition of it, the uselessness, the stigma, the hedonism. He really didn't feel like going; there was no reason for him to go. Plus, like Virgil said—somebody _did_ need to be on patrol that night… that person might as well be Gear. Plus, then he could finish up drawing up the plans for the modified Z Machine—

_Virgil in a tux, _his brain suggested.

Richie gulped, and the blood returned to his face. Perhaps a little more than necessary.

"Don't worry, V," he said, regaining his composure. "Of course I'm going."

**x x x x x **

Prom was going to be held at the Monte Carlo Hotel and Resort, smack in the middle of the ritzy tourist area by the beach. Transportation was going to be a hassle especially if over four hundred students were attending (and possibly more; not all students were taking dates from Dakota Union High) but the five-star hotel was really the prime location for Dakota's senior class to get their party on. The theme was _1001 Nights_, from Scherezade's Tales; the Arabian Night-themed prom was going to feature belly dancing, cushioned lounges, lush decorations, Middle Eastern _hor douvres_ and as rumors had it, a fully stocked hookah bar out on the patio balconies.

Richie was very aware of prom, and that it was coming up, and that it was going to themed extravagantly, not in the usual, cheesy vein of _A Night to Remember_ or _Magical Memories_ or something as obvious as _Prom Committee is Busting Its Nuts to Bring This To You Guys So You'd BETTER DAMN WELL Remember this Night_, but something classy, old school, and come on, there was going to be _hookah!_ And it was _prom_!

And Richie could see that, pardon the nerdiness, that the event really was going to be ten kinds of awesome but he didn't appreciate the fact that Daisy had taken it upon herself to advertise the thing to him fifteen times today now, and now was approaching the final stage of her marketing plan: convincing Richie to buy tickets.

"You should really buy your tickets now," Daisy said to Richie one afternoon after their last class ended. The two of them had both been too busy and the classroom had been much too stuffy and hot to pay any attention to what their literature teacher was saying about Mrs. Dalloway—Richie had been surreptitiously computing the algorithms for the Z Machine programs, and Daisy had been doodling hearts and flowers and stars in the margin of her composition book. "They're going to sell out, Richie."

Richie sighed. "Daisy, I'll buy them _later_. I _promise._ And they're not going to be sold out—that's just what you guys say every year to make people nervous."

Daisy crossed her arms. "Fine. They might not be 'sold out,' but I can guarantee you that you'll be regretting the price increase when you decide to buy them 'later.'"

"What's the price increase?" Richie raised an eyebrow. "Fifty cents?"

"Fifty cents is a lot of money," Daisy exclaimed. "You save fifty cents here, fifty cents there, then you have one dollar! Then you go to the dollar store—"

Richie groaned. "I don't need Russell Peters to tell me how to manage my portfolio and stock options, much less my spending habits."

"You—" Daisy shook her head. "Okay, Richie. Who are you asking?"

"What?" Richie looked around nervously. "Oh, I just remembered—I have to run errands for my mom right after school, gotta go—"

"Hold it right there, Richard Foley." Daisy grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. "Girls are taking bets here, hot stuff. We all wanna know who you're planning on going with!"

"What are you talking about?" Richie was genuinely curious now, still a little apprehensive, but curious nonetheless. "The girls have... _bets_ on me?"

"Well, on who you're going to ask out." Daisy shrugged. "Now I know it's not going to be me, so I'm safe—"

"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure about that," Richie wiggled his eyebrows at her. "You know, V and me have pretty similar tastes and all—"

_Oops_.

Daisy raised an eyebrow, even as a blush colored her cheeks. "Really."

"No no no, forget I said anything!" Richie waved his hands in front of him. "No further comment. Hey, uh," Richie made a show of looking at his watch. "I have to go. Errands, you know. But I'll catch you later!"

With Daisy distracted, Richie managed to slip away.

**x x x x x **

Two hours later, after Richie had taken care of all the "errands" that he'd needed to run for the day, Static and Gear were on patrol, both perched on the ledge of the clock tower overlooking the west area of town. And Gear was rediscovering his fear of heights. Sort of.

"You _what_?" Static had him suspended a couple hundred feet over heavy downtown traffic in a very, very tenuous electrical field.

"I, uh." Richie shrugged helplessly. "I couldn't help it, dude! She was cornering me!"

"Tell me another one."

"I'm _serious_. I just wanted to distract her so I could get out of there!"

"And so you betrayed my confidence. Oh, the indignity!" Virgil let the electrical field weaken even more, and Richie felt himself plummet a couple of feet. Of course he was safe, given that he had his rocket boots on, but still, this was a bit like playing with fire…

"Don't worry about it." Richie said as calmly as he could. "She seemed pretty enthused about it. She was getting all blushy and everything."

"That's the _problem,_ man." Virgil deflated, and levitated his friend back onto the ledge. "I just see her as a friend. It took me a few years to catch on, but that's all I'll ever want from her." He grumbled, little sparks of electricity flying from his head. "Now, if Daisy had gotten blushy a _year_ ago, things might have turned out differently…"

"Tell me another one," Richie mimicked Virgil from just another moment ago. "You're kidding, right? You've been hot for her the moment you set eyes on her at Van Moor."

"Old _news_, dude. I've been telling you that for a while now." Static sighed, and then looked up at Richie curiously. "Why do you keep asking me about it?"

You never forget your firsts, V." Richie muttered. "It's just how it is."

Virgil cast him a sideways smirk. "Sounds like you're speaking from experience, bro. Is there something you're not telling me?" Brown eyes widened in concern. "It's not Timezone, is it?"

"Wha—" Richie laughed, caught off guard. "No, it's not Timezone. That'd be a lost cause either way."

The other boy shook his head, dreadlocks falling in his face. "Well, if you want to get technical, Daisy's not my first. Remember? Frieda was."

As far as Richie was concerned, all of Virgil's crushes and girlfriends were his firsts; he'd never stayed with any of them long enough to cement his feelings for them, and as a result, he was just as emotionally attached to the fifth as he was to the second, to the twentieth as to the sixteenth.

"Daisy was your first homegirl, and Frieda was your first Jewish _habibi_," Richie crossed his arms.

"Hey now," Virgil's tone was light. "You know I don't discriminate on any basis. I am an equal opportunity lover. All races."

"Try telling that to Frieda's parents," Richie retorted. "Jewish father-in-laws would be even worse than the Irish ones."

"Irish…" Virgil frowned. "Huh?"

The other boy didn't get it. Well, on a second thought, Richie didn't get it either. No, Richie didn't get it at all. It was like a Freudian slip or something, except it _wasn't_, it was just a stupid thing to say, because Richie was losing his touch on humor. Growing a bigger brain meant losing street wit, and here Richie was, cracking bad jokes, and…

Virgil took a deep breath. "Rich—"

An explosion went off by the industrial district on the south side of town, smoke rising ominously into the air. Gear shot off in a flash, not looking back at the clock tower to see if Static would follow.

Gear pressed a button on the side of his helmet, and the police alert report began scrolling through his visor screen. One lone Bang Baby, down by an old car factory, abilities exhibited: invisibility and average strength. Gear narrowed his eyes. It wouldn't be so hard to fight this one, as long as they were dumb like the rest of the Bang Babies; those with strength tended toward the thick, and those with the powers of invisibility were overly cocky and slipped up.

He could see the police lights flashing on the cars and the yellow tape that sectioned off the factory yard. He landed down next to one of the officers, who gave a start and almost fired his gun. Gear held up his hands apologetically.

"Gear!" The policeman smiled in relief once he realized who it was. "We weren't expecting you guys—" He looked behind Gear. "Where's your buddy, by the way?"

"He's on his way." Gear looked over his shoulder. Static was nowhere to be seen, and he mentally cursed himself; without Gear providing the specific coordinates, Static would probably have to scour the area more thoroughly. Well, what was a minute or two? Gear could work out a strategy while waiting for Static. "What's the problem, officer?"

"The guy seems to be invisible," the officer explained. "We're not sure if it's an effect of the Bang or if he's another Alva employee with some technogizmo, but whatever it is, he seems to be fairly normal. He's not able to phase through walls or anything, so we've been able to corner him into this building… he's somewhere in there. He hasn't materialized so far, so we can't give you a description, but I think—"

"Thanks." Gear ducked under the yellow tape and headed for the factory, passing a decrepit car and a few rotten shrubberies that lined the entrance to the building. Ducking through the dismantled front entrance, he set his rocket boots to the 'hover' dial and crept silently through the dust-ridden foyer. The counter of the reception desk, the floor, the overhead lights were all covered with a thin, fine layer of white dust; Richie could make out footprints strewn here and there, all roughly the same size. There wasn't any indication of the Bang Baby's current tracks, though—there were too many tracks to count. But it was obvious; this had been the Bang Baby's hideout for quite a while.

Gear made a mental note of how the building had appeared from the outside. This place was _huge_, and if there wasn't some indication of where the Bang Baby was, this might take a few hours.

"Backpack," his voice was low. "Give me a blueprint of the old car factory on 34 Hillhouse Avenue, Dakota industrial park."

It beeped and buzzed as it hacked through the city's blueprint library, and Backpack pulled up the schematic. Gear whistled as the information flew past his visor. There were five levels in total including the basement, and the building was divided up into two components; the factory component and the administrative side. The administrative side was appropriately banal—rows and rows of offices and hallways with ninety-degree turns. There were four factory rooms and the basement housed the generator and a miniature electrical plant. Useful for Static, if he somehow ran out of power during the fight.

Gear honestly didn't have the time to silently go through each and every floor of the building to locate this Bang Baby, especially when said Bang Baby could slip past his guard, unnoticed and invisible.

_Oh, duh_.

Activating his heat vision, Gear silently cursed himself for his mental sluggishness. This Bang Baby was just invisible. Whether he was invisible because he managed to warp the light around him in some sort of localized illusion or because he somehow managed to infuse some sort of transparent optic fiber into the extracellular matrix of his skin cells… the possibilities were endless. But Gear was willing to bet that underneath it all, he still exuded body heat.

The problem now was to lure him out of his hiding place.

"Hey, ugly!" It was the standard adjective when addressing Bang Babies; usually they were ugly, or if they themselves weren't ugly, at least their costumes were hideous. How this applied to an invisible enemy, though… well, Gear didn't really care.

"_Hey, ugly!_" Gear floated into the assembly room. Rows and rows of dead conveyor belts stretched across the room, hooks and grapples hung in the air, moving slightly at the disturbance in the air. A faint scent of iron and ash hung in the room, and sunlight filtered in through the windows at the opposite end of the room from tiny windows, illuminating the heavy dust that hung in the air. "I want to talk!"

Without warning, a wrench flew past his ear.

"Whoa!" Gear jumped back with a start as the wrench clattered noisily to the floor. He spun in the direction the wrench had come from, and caught something out of the corner of his heat sensor as a dart of red and orange skipped out of the room. "You've got bad aim, buddy," Gear smirked, chasing after the blur, his rocket boots on full blast. "Try again, why don't you?"

He was back in the main lobby again, the invisible Bang Baby nowhere to be seen. Gear closed his eyes for a minute, trying to listen to any sounds that would give away the other's location. He made out the sounds of the police sirens whooping and the excited chatter of police officers out in front.

_Shut up, shut up_… Gear bit his lip. "Backpack, sound filter."

The sounds of the police outside drifted away, and somewhere far away, Gear heard the faint _ding_ of an elevator reaching its destination.

"I can't believe this place has still got working elevators—" Gear eyed the rusty door of the lobby elevator skeptically. "I'm taking the stairs. Backpack, where was that elevator headed?"

His computer gave a quizzical beep. There was no active computer in the building that controlled the elevators or any of the security cameras; they had all been dismantled sometime ago. Gear cursed, and walked over to the elevator door. "Backpack, metal cutter."

Backpack sliced through the elevator doors with its laser cutter and Gear peeked inside the inky darkness of the elevator shaft. Turning Backpack's flashlight upwards, eh saw that the elevator was currently suspended approximately three to four floors above. Gear didn't want to bring the elevator back down—there were four other elevators located in various parts of the factory, and he didn't want to chase the Bang Baby through elevators through the rest of the afternoon. Best let him think that he'd gotten away for now; Gear decided to take the stairs.

Jetting himself to the fourth floor, Gear hung out in the stairwell for a minute and resisted the urge to cough and give away his position; the dust hung perpetually thick everywhere up here, and Gear could barely see through the haze. He cracked open the door a hint; this was one of the office areas; cubicles arranged sporadically, old computers laying around on empty desks and various papers strewn around on the floor. Gear squinted—there seemed to be some kind of a little house constructed behind the glass walls of the corner office on the far end of the room.

"Night vision." Sure enough, he could make out a faint blur of red and orange at the far end of room, situated in the little house. The only problem was that with night vision on, he couldn't discern the layout of the room, couldn't make out where the cubicles and the desks were. The only things that radiated heat in the room were him, the Backpack, and the Bang Baby.

The faint sounds of music stirred from the corner office; Gear could make out the chorus to some popular rock song. The Bang Baby seemed to be humming along, oblivious that Gear was watching from the stair hall.

He was going to rush the Bang Baby, Gear decided. He readied two zap caps and a smoke grenade.

"Backpack, heat laser." Ignoring the high-pitched whine of the laser, Gear shut the stairwell door behind him and melted the doorknob and fused the edges of the door to the wall, blocking off the Bang Baby's chance of escape by stair. The red and orange blob in the corner office didn't seem to notice that Gear had entered the office floor. Gear crept over to the elevator and stuck a proximity mine to it and set it for a range of ten feet. If the Bang Baby even so much as tried to get close, the bomb would go off, blowing up the elevator with it.

Gear navigated the maze of cubicles and crept up to the corner office, opening the door without a sound, zap caps in hand. The cubicle house was shoddily constructed and looked unstable; it was held together with duct tape and the hinge of the "front door" basically more duct tape; a small light emanated from the inside, and Gear could hear the strains of rock music—angry, suicide-toting, scream-o rock music, coming from the inside. Through his night vision, he could make out the red and orange heat composite of the Bang Baby bobbing his head back and forth to the music.

But what was this—? Gear turned his night vision off for a minute as he surveyed the corner office with a speculative eye. Jewelry lay in piles on the corner office desk and DVDs lined the bookshelves. A few game systems were heaped up in one of the corners, and there was an expensive-looking leather chair with opulent zebra and leopard print accents behind the desk that Gear decided was not a part of traditional office décor.

And Clothes littered the ground—all beautiful clothes, and Gear saw that many of the price tags were still attached. The most haute couture dresses, skirts, and flimsy tops, high stilettos, lacy brassieres, and designer bags. Gear picked up one of the dresses. It was ripped—right around the chest area, and around the hips. Size 22.

Gear realized that Bang Baby wasn't a "he" around the same time that the Bang Baby realized she wasn't alone.

"Is that _Gear_ again?" She snarled, a formless voice. The door fell open and clattered to the ground, but Gear couldn't see anything, just the shadows of the cubicle house. The faint rays of sunlight coming in through the window gave way to more shadows, didn't illuminate anything. "You think you're such hot shit, don't you? You guys need to learn to just _leave me alone!_ I don't want your _fucking help_!"

Gear blindly threw the zap cap at the Bang Baby. It missed, snagging the side wall of the cubicle house and winding itself around it, bringing the house down. The Bang Baby screamed, the sound much too close for comfort, and Gear backed against the door so she couldn't get behind him, pressing a hand to his helmet.

"You bastards, you're all fucking _dead_!" The sound was almost right in his ears. "Leave me alone, leave me the fuck alone!"

"Backpack, _night vision,_" Gear yelled, and immediately his world was plunged into green, inky darkness. He looked around wildly, to his right, to his left—

Gear was thinking, _I'm sorry. _To the Bang Baby, to Static, to Virgil—he didn't know.

The last thing he saw was a hideously large red and orange blob no more than two inches in front of him, a red and orange fist-shaped blob coming right at his face.

**x x x x x **

His head hurt. His neck hurt. His legs sort of hurt, too, and he felt like he had a lungful of ash and a mouthful of cotton.

"It's cool, Pops. I'll be home soon. Just give me another hour, okay? Yeah, he's fine—just happened to—" A sigh. "I wasn't there, I know—I wasn't—_geez_, Pops, give us a break, we're—" Another sigh. "Yeah, I get it, Pops… okay. Love you too. Bye."

Richie made his breathing as even as he could, kept his eyes neutrally closed. So they were back in the gas station, lying on the squeaky couch, and he couldn't remember anything about this afternoon apart from the fat that he had gotten his ass kicked by a plus-sized, invisible Bang Baby. And he had been predictably saved. At the last minute. Of course.

He could hear footsteps approaching, and then stop.

"Give it up, Rich." Virgil sounded irritated, and Richie's reluctantly opened his eyes, focusing on a dark stain on the ceiling.

"I'm sorry, Virgil." He didn't want to move, he didn't want to look at the other boy.

"You're sorry, I know you're _sorry_." Virgil said. "You just ran off without a word! I couldn't even locate the Bang Baby, I had to look around—turns out the explosion had nothing to do with the Bang Baby!" I was there at the explosion site for fifteen minutes with the other cops trying to figure out what was going on and where you were before I realized you were at some other location."

"I'm—"

"And you just busted in there without knowing all the facts, without waiting for my backup—" Virgil plunked down on the couch next to Richie and buried his face in his hands. "I was in the building looking for you guys for five minutes before I heard the bomb go off on the elevator. And I got up there, and—"

Richie made an effort to turn onto his side, and realized that he had a busted lip, and that his arm was wrapped up in bandages and his fingers were black and blue. His ribs hurt, and he coughed. Richie swore he could see a puff of ash escape his lips.

"That place was closed down because of a fire ten years ago." Virgil swung around, glaring at Richie. "The fire ate up the basement and the ash is still floating around in the building. You were wandering around without doing your whole analytical thing beforehand—_Rich._ What the hell was the matter with you?"

"I thought it was dust," he said weakly. "I really did. I saw the blueprint of the basement, though—the generator was intact—"

"_Blueprint_, Richie." Virgil stood up abruptly, his body wired, tense. "Did you bother to check the city records? Newspaper reports?"

"I didn't know, Virgil!" Richie threw himself back down on the couch in frustration, wincing as he felt something crack in his back. "Okay? Are you happy? I didn't research everything before I entered the building. I didn't run a perimeter check, I didn't do a background check, I didn't write a fucking twenty-page mission briefing on it. So what do you want to do about it? What's done is _done_."

"I went back outside and saw the smoke coming from the building, and I got up there, and—" Virgil wavered, and then slumped back down on the couch. "Damn it, Rich."

Richie saw Virgil's shoulders shaking, and looked back at the spot on the ceiling again. No, Virgil couldn't be crying, he was probably laughing at what a dumbass Richie had been. Yeah, Richie had been pretty dumb about the whole thing. Barging in like that, planning a rush without an exit strategy. Richie wanted to laugh at himself, except his ribs hurt too much already.

"What happened to her?" He asked, quietly.

"What?" Virgil turned around, his eyes dry, but his face pale, washed out. Richie wondered how long he had been out, how long Virgil had been pacing back and forth in the gas station, trying to explain to Mr. H what had happened, how long he had been watching over Richie.

He gulped past the lump in his throat. "What happened to the Bang Baby?"

Virgil's lips thinned. "She didn't have any control over her invisibility; she'd been like that since the Bang. When I found you guys—I borrowed your helmet after I got you out of there—she was knocked out by the elevator. You—" his voice caught in his throat. "She was this big, bloody mess. I didn't even need night vision to see her."

Richie closed his eyes. "Jesus."

"She was okay," Virgil continued. "But she couldn't breathe—she was choking on her own blood, and the doctors couldn't get the tube down her throat because—because she was _invisible._ Her airway was shutting down because of the blood. The surgeon borrowed your helmet and the rest of the residents had to be fitted with night vision goggles to do it but they got the best surgeon on the job—they did an emergency tracheotomy and cut open her throat and got the oxygen in. It worked."

"I see," Richie felt nauseous. He had almost killed a girl, a relatively innocent Bang Baby, one who was only guilty of shoplifting; Richie hadn't even thought about it. What was worth more, in the end: the Bang Baby's life, or the material goods that she had stolen? And he'd gotten away with—

"You're fine." Virgil rubbed the back of his head. "I checked you out—it seemed like she beat you up pretty badly at the time, but you've just got some bruises. That's all."

Richie rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie and checked out his bandages—a little bit of the blood had seeped through, but not much. There was some medical tape over his cheek and across his lip—he resisted the urge to lick at it. He ran his hand down his calf and felt through his cargo pants the thickness of bandages there, and his socks—

He was in his street clothes.

Richie flushed slowly as he realized what this meant. It would have been Static who had brought him back to the gas station right after the fight, changed him, and rushed Richie Foley to the hospital—or it had been Static who had brought Gear to the hospital right after the fight and changed him afterwards. Either way, it was Virgil who had… _handled _him, and even though it wasn't as if they hadn't done it before, when rushing each other to the emergency rooms, for some reason, it felt _different_.

"Yeah, um." Virgil seemed to notice that Richie was looking at his clothes with a puzzled, flushed expression on his face. "I had to get you out of the Gear suit so we could get out to the hospital—they couldn't do the bandages without taking off the outfit, you know, and I didn't want them to know your identity, so…" Virgil's voice trailed off, uncertain and embarrassed. Richie made a noncommittal sound, not giving any indication that he had really heard what Virgil was saying.

The sounds settled around them; the slow, lazy whirl of the ceiling fan, the passage of the traffic outside, the creaks and groans of the gas station as the building swayed on its foundations.

"Richie."

Virgil's voice was soft, tender, almost. Richie closed his eyes, an act of self-preservation, and tried not to think everything that had happened.

"Why'd you run off like that, bro?"

"I—" Richie said, and sat up as much as he could, so he could look Virgil in the eye.

And once, he might have been able to be upfront about it—say it unflinchingly, unapologetically, that what was done was done, and it had happened, so there was no use thinking about it now.

_Bro_, _I didn't mean what I said, you know about the Irish in-laws and the things and I know, Virg, that you might get the wrong idea but the truth is, I mean, really, the truth is that I—_

But these weren't the days that things were simple, that you could just say _whatever_ and get away with it, call your mother _stupid_ and _mean _and be forgiven within the hour, talk to your friends in class and be let off with a slight reprimand from the teacher; no, they were both eighteen and were supposed to be responsible citizens.

And even if Dakota could trust Gear to protect the city, and even if the nation could trust Richie to vote for the next President, Richie couldn't trust himself to say what he really wanted to say.

"I had some things on my mind, Virg," Richie shrugged lightly, but the tone of his words deliberately betrayed a weight, a warning.

_Don't go there, Virgil._

And Virgil nodded wordlessly, crossing his arms, staring at Richie, fire and discontent in his eyes as Richie pretended not to notice, as Richie curled up into a ball and pretended to doze off.

**x x x x x **

**x x x x x **


	3. Distractions

**Chapter 3: Distractions**

**

* * *

  
**

Richie made sure to wear long sleeves for the next couple days as the bruises from the Bang Baby scuffle faded. As if the punishment for his reckless behavior weren't already enough—Virgil was acting unsure and tentative around him—and on top of that, it was getting to be unbearably hot. Steam floated up from the asphalt and concrete, heat waves distorting the horizon. Everybody huddled in the shade during lunch, and Richie sweated buckets going from class to class.

The most unbearable part of his Wednesdays was physics class—not because he didn't like the class, but because it was always after lunch during the hottest part of the day. Even the most astute super geniuses were susceptible to post-lunch food coma.

"Hey Richie," Thomas Kim said as the boy took a seat next to him, jolting Richie out of his stupor. "You don't look so good."

_Gee, ya think_? Richie forced a smile. "I'm a little hot, is all. Nothing much."

"You should change into your gym shirt," Thomas commented, his nose wrinkling imperceptibly. "It might stink, but at least it's got short sleeves."

"Thanks for the advice, Tom… but you're in long sleeves yourself."

Thomas tugged at the collar of his button-up and adjusted his tie. "I've gotten used to it, I guess."

"Your dad still makes you wear a tie and a shirt to school?" Richie sighed. "Did you attend a private school back in Korea?"

"Well," Thomas said, "I only tested into a third-tier elementary school, which really disappointed my parents. I didn't understand why at the time."

Richie raised an eyebrow—testing to get into elementary schools? And he thought all the crap you needed for college—AP scores, SAT scores—was difficult.

"Well, it looked like it worked out for you, anyway," Richie mused. "You got into CalTech, right? That's pretty far away."

Thomas grinned. "I'm looking forward to it."

Their physics teacher walked in, and class started. Richie was past paying attention—senioritis was really starting to kick in, and he felt lazier than ever, especially when he was sitting next to workaholic Asian kid Thomas Kid. The kid really put everybody else to shame—smart as a button without the help of mutagenic gas. And with his Bang Baby past being common knowledge, Thomas probably milked it for all it was worth in his college app essays. Richie sighed, and opened his notebook.

He passed Daisy on his way out of class, and she gave him a speculative look, as always. He raised up his hands in a gesture of surrender and beat her to the punch. "Nobody yet, Daisy."

She frowned. "I really don't believe you, Richie. But we still got that bet going, so don't let us down, okay?"

"Just wait," he said, and headed off to his next class.

Taking bets? Honestly, it was kind of ridiculous. Then again, Richie was probably so wrapped up in his own world he wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been told.

He saw Virgil across the hallway, looking sort of lost. Reflexively, Richie fished his cell phone from his pocket and began scrolling through old text messages, head bent down, pretending not to see the other boy.

All his text messages were from Virgil: Bro, meet me at the Burger Fool in twenty. Rich, what are you doing after school today. Something came up, dog, I'm gonna be late. Sorry.

When Richie looked up again, Virgil wasn't standing there anymore. He put his cell phone away and trudged on.

* * *

Virgil found him at lunch, sitting on one of the benches at the front of the school, flipping through his chemistry book. There was nothing Richie could do about it; no excuses, no reasons to jet. He cursed inwardly, he should have gone to office hours or something today, to see Mr. Dean about his homework for class—even though he got perfect scores on all of them.

"What's up, bro," Virgil said, trying to play it cool. Richie wanted to laugh.

"Nothing much," he said instead. "Just a little tired. You?"

Virgil set his sack lunch down on the bench with a thump and leaned back. "Don't give me that shit, Richie. It's been bugging you since the other day. But I just want to know _what's_ been bugging you like this."

A little tired, a little hot, a little this, a little that. Richie was full of excuses, and he couldn't bring himself to lie again. Truth was, he was completely alert, completely full with all of what his senses were picking up—the slight breeze in the air, their shadows like puddles at their feet, the smell of Virgil next to him, like Calvin Klein cologne and soap. He really hated that cologne. It was a present Daisy had gotten for him a couple months ago, and he still wore it even though there was nothing between them now. Richie had mentioned it to him one time, to which Virgil had protested, _what? It's good stuff. Might as well use it_. Typical.

"Sorry I chewed you out the other day," Virgil started, but Richie cut him off.

"It was my fault," Richie said. "I didn't ask the right questions of the authorities. I handled it pretty badly. If anybody's going to apologize, Virg, it's me."

But Virgil wasn't placated. "I just wondered how they managed to corner the Bang Baby in the first place, you know? Sometimes they don't need us, so we shouldn't have rushed in like that—"

"Cut the "we" crap, Virgil. I don't need you to sugarcoat it for me." Richie balled his fists in his lap. "I ran off first. I saw trouble, and I wanted to fix it." No need to tell why he ran off, really. Trouble? Yeah, it wasn't Bang Baby trouble that drove him off. He'd come dangerously close to letting another piece of Freud slip from his talkative, tell-all mouth.

"It's like—" Virgil said, his voice straining. Richie knew this was hard for him, knew it was hard for Virgil to try to explain things to Richie like he was a little kid. "It's like this, bro. Just because it's a Bang Baby doesn't mean that he—or she—is bad, you know? Just because the police are following him doesn't mean that he's got an agenda."

"This coming from the Bang Baby with the biggest agenda of all of them."

"Hey, hey." Virgil's voice was light, terribly cautious. Richie hated it when Virgil did this, handled him with kid gloves. _Just get pissed already, _Richie fumed. "I mean," Virgil continued, "Ebon's probably got a bigger agenda than we do."

"I don't have an agenda." Richie stood up. "Actually, the only thing on my agenda right now is to finish school. Graduate. And before all of that, get a date."

"For prom?" Virgil raised an eyebrow. The conversation was venturing into safe territory; Virgil felt it was safe to ask questions. Richie closed his eyes and let out a small sigh.

"Yeah," he continued on anyway, despite not wanting to discuss the topic in depth. "Apparently they've got some sort of bet as to who I should go out with."

"Who's 'they?'" Virgil made quote signs in the air.

"Daisy and some of the girls."

Virgil's eyes brightened as if in the throes of a brilliant idea. "You know, you should ask one of them."

Richie shrugged, feeling keenly self-conscious. "I'm sure most of them have dates already."

"You never know until you try."

"It's easy for you, man." Now he was getting angry, and for no good reason. "They just come to you, right?"

"What are you talking about?" Virgil's voice was getting louder, too.

"I'm talking about Daisy." Richie thrust his chin out defiantly. "She's like the ultimate backup plan, right?"

"It's not like that, Richie!" Virgil's eyes flashed. Richie swore he saw little purple sparks of electricity fly off Virgil's head.

"Save it," Richie said coolly. "I need a date. I know that it's not going to be Daisy."

"Who's gonna go with you if your attitude's like that, man?"

Richie pretended not to hear him, staring ahead at the basketball courts. The bell rang after a length pause between them. Richie mumbled a hasty goodbye, picking up his backpack and walking to his next class, and resisted the urge to look back apologetically.

* * *

"Madelyn, you have a date for prom yet?"

The girl in question slammed her locker shut and whirled around to face Richie, a look of intense scrutiny on her face. Richie felt like he was being cooked on a skillet. _Don't even talk about preheating the oven to four hundred and fifty degrees—Madelyn's eyes are like the sun. _

"Why are you asking me?" She said. Her voice was terse, like she was in a hurry. The girl always walked with her nose in the air, eyelashes full of mascara, her Mercedes Benz parked out way in the back of the school parking lot so nobody would dent it. The last bell had rung. Richie had been waiting by her locker for twenty minutes before she showed up, and the hallways were just about deserted.

"Because your eyes are like the sun," he said, almost truthfully.

Madelyn burst out into peals of laughter. "That's not how you do it, Foley."

"Okay," Richie sucked in his breath and tried puffing up his chest. "I need a date."

"Nope," Madelyn _tsked_ under her breath. "That's not right either."

"Do you do karate?" Richie raised an eyebrow.

The petite girl narrowed her eyes and took a step back, raking her eyes up and down Richie. "I could school your ass, if that's what you mean."

"Because your body is kicking," Richie deadpanned.

They stared at each other, neither wanting to back down to the other. Finally, Madelyn looked away, fiddled with her books. She let out an exasperated sigh.

"Okay, _fine_. But do it the right way tomorrow. Red roses are the tackiest thing ever. I want two dozen white roses."

"You're not going to a _funeral_…" Richie murmured.

Madelyn turned on her heel and glared at him. "It'll be _your_ funeral if you don't. I'll tell the whole school that Richard Foley got down on his knees _begged_ me to take him to prom like a big baby."

Richie watched her walk away, wondering how she managed to wear the same damn plaid skirt every day, and why the hell it was so short. The consensus among guys was that yeah, Madelyn was a hottie, but nobody wanted their dick cut off when they weren't looking. "You couldn't get a date even if you tried," he called down the hallway, on an impulse. "We're in the same boat."

"Don't be condescending, Foley," Madelyn called back, heels clicking smartly on the tile. "Who's asking whom?"

* * *

The next day it was all over school, just shy of being front page news in the paper. There was hardly anything Richie could do for damage control, since he came to school with rather obviously carrying a lush and fragrant bouquet of two dozen white roses in his hand, and a box of chocolate in the other in case the white roses weren't enough. He had to carry the former through the day until he could present the offering to his lucky date during lunch.

When he finally tracked her down, Richie didn't receive half of the accolades that he had expected in the first place (and he had deliberately kept his expectations low).

"You got roses _without _baby's breath," Madelyn fumed. "And I'm only worth a box of $3.99 drugstore chocolates? I get it, Richard." Her posse gave Richie alarmed, indignant looks and they had begun to attract the attention of a few lunch-goers. He could have sworn that Madelyn was starting to foam at the mouth, and flames were licking at the corners of her lips. (He deduced that if her eyes burned like the sun and her mouth breathed fire, Madelyn's head must therefore be a huge ball of condensed hot gas.)

"What kind of a date doesn't know that roses are automatically guaranteed with baby's breath? I mean, did you tell the florist to deliberately pick out the baby's breath when you bought them? Did you save like, a buck for your efforts? Oh poor, poor Richie Foley, too poor to even ask a girl out to prom the right way—"

"I'll just take them back, then," Richie said indifferently, reaching out for the flowers.

"Oh, no." Madelyn pulled the bouquet out of his reach, equally cool. She stuck her nose into the bouquet and took two satisfied sniffs. "I don't think so. Leave the chocolates on the lunch table, I don't even want to touch them. Have you kept them in your backpack for like _two weeks?_ The box is all dented on the side. I can't even believe you. Look, just make sure you buy the tickets today."

Said ticket-buying would have to take place with Daisy, who was not going to be pleased with his choice of prom date. Richie felt a bit of petty, maniacal glee when he finally sought her out—his choice had probably thrown all bets off the table. He wondered what lucky soul had put her chips on Madelyn; she'd be cashing out soon enough.

Daisy gave him cow-eyes from halfway across the quad before they were finally within talking distance. "Please, Richie, tell me it isn't true."

"I'll need two tickets, Daisy." Richie pulled out his wallet. "How much is that? Like a hundred bucks?"

"A hundred-seventy," Daisy replied reflexively. "But Richie—!"

Richie blanched at the price, but sucked it up, digging around reluctantly in his wallet. "Here you go."

"Richie, _who_ made you ask Madelyn?" She rubbed her temples, as if fending off a migraine. "You could have done _so _much better."

"Ask Virgil," Richie shrugged, pocketing the change and shoving the tickets into his wallet. "Apparently he thought my attitude wasn't going to land me anybody."

"So you had to choose the mother of all bridezillas?" Daisy protested. "What, to get back at him?"

Richie held his hands up in defense. "Chill out, okay? I didn't ask her to _marry_ me. It's just a dance."

"Richard Osgood Foley," Daisy pursed her lips, and Richie wondered why people liked calling him by his full name when they were pissed at him, "she's going to get _so_ anal on you. She's going to have you wound around her pinky finger and if you don't listen to her, she's going to go into bitch fit mode. You're not going to have a good time. Rethink it."

Richie took a step back. "You're being awfully commanding yourself—and it's not like I can _de-invite_ her."

"I'm just trying to tell you as a friend. I don't want you to regret your decision. You should go with—" Daisy shrugged helplessly. "With—"

"I'm sorry you didn't win your bet," Richie said gently, trying to keep as much sarcasm out of his voice. "But this is my decision. And plus, if Madelyn calls all the shots on prom night, I'll have less to worry about."

"She's a _control freak_," Daisy shot. "You'll be miserable."

_Whatever,_ Richie thought_._ _She's just a marginal addition to my total misery._ "I wouldn't worry about it." He tucked his wallet back in his pocket and gave her a cheery smile. "I'll talk to you later, Daisy."

* * *

The rest of the day passed by without much commotion, though Richie endured his share of stares and whispers from the senior class during passing periods. He texted Virgil saying that he'd be going straight to the Gas Station and that Virgil didn't need to wait up for him. Though the day had passed just like any other for the most part, Richie was exhausted to his bones.

It was blistering hot outside, and Richie had the urge to change into his Gear costume right that moment so he could jet to the Gas Station instead of walk. But that was the catch with having two identities—you had to maintain the other one.

He had been hard at work in the basement lab for about two hours when the door slammed upstairs. Virgil came downstairs moments later, flinging his backpack onto the chair across Richie, leaning over the counter.

A few moments of silence passed before Virgil spoke up. "Nice to know you got it all straightened out, man."

Richie figured he was talking about his choice of a date. "You never know how it might turn out." Richie shrugged, and looked up.

He was surprised at what he saw. Far from being sarcastic in any way, Virgil's smile was easy and forgiving—like he forgave Richie for all his silliness with Madelyn, like he forgave Madelyn for being such a bitch.

"Guess we gotta hope for the best," Virgil said, and kept on smiling. "I mean, I don't know what the big deal is with everybody. I think she's pretty cute, and if you can put up with her attitude—well, good for you."

"I've handled Bang Babies with worse attitudes," Richie said flippantly. "Taking Madelyn to prom will be a walk in the park."

Virgil gave him an amused glance and shrugged his shoulders. "If you say so."

"I do," Richie retorted, and, embarrassed at his lame reply, ducked his head to hide the blush he could feel coming on.

With nothing more to say, Virgil turned on the television and began doing pushups and situps, and Richie continued at his workstation.

He decided to call it quits around seven, and Virgil asked if he wanted to come over to his place for dinner. They headed back to the Hawkins residence, the walk a little more quiet than usual, with Virgil resorting to commenting on the weather as a last resort. Richie tried not to think about it too hard and managed to keep complicated thoughts at bay until they arrived at Virgil's front step, the smell of basil and garlic wafting in the air.

"Italian, my favorite." Virgil opened the door, all smiles. "Sharon, you better not have burned the garlic bread!"

"I'm saving those pieces for you," Sharon called back from the kitchen. "Hurry up and set the table! I thought you two were going to be back fifteen minutes ago."

Richie followed Virgil into the kitchen, letting himself open up to the pleasant normality that pervaded the Hawkins residence—the Italian cooking, the sounds of playful banter in the kitchen between Virgil and Sharon, Mr. Hawkins coming through downstairs, his footsteps light and cheery, his voice warm as he greeted Richie, like Richie was a part of the family. Same old, same old.

That was, until he accidentally spilled some marinara sauce on himself while helping himself to the spaghetti, prompting an outcry from Sharon and a grin from Virgil, causing him to start. He regained composure as soon as he could manage, and looked busy by dabbing a napkin, somewhat futilely, at the red stain on his shirt.

* * *

That weekend, Daisy insisted on accompanying Virgil and Richie to the Men's Wearhouse to help them pick their tuxedos, citing defensively (before either of them had even asked) that the boys probably had no idea what would look good on them and what wouldn't. Richie wasn't fooled by her excuse, seeing the pink pooling in her cheeks, but Virgil had just sighed good-naturedly, as he was prone to do, and accepted Daisy's offer.

To be fair, Daisy was actually doing an active job and not spending all her time ogling Virgil, which was how he was in this situation right now. He just hoped that his voice didn't reflect the irritation he felt.

"That cut just isn't _right_ for you, Richie," Daisy grimaced. Richie looked at himself in the mirror. He had reserved a tuxedo online—pigeon-grey, three-button, non-vented, 100% wool, and Ralph Lauren. The website had guaranteed that it would be the perfect look to any contemporary event. Richie wasn't exactly sure what that meant, or why he had remembered all those details, but he supposed this was just one of the perks of being a super-genius with a super memory.

"But it's Ralph Lauren." He summoned his best sagely look, hoping that the mention of a designer label would convince Daisy that he knew what he was doing—or at least get her off his case.

Virgil both blinked back at him. "Ralph who?" Virgil's eyes were round. Richie winced and realized what he had just said and how it had sounded. Okay, maybe it hadn't been a great idea to show off.

But Daisy wasn't even remotely fazed. "I just think the Ralph Lauren is a bit… _mature_ for you, Richie. It makes you look old. Now if you're looking for something young, Cavalli is—"

Virgil came to his rescue. "Well, Madelyn _did_ say that she'd hoped that a Dakota U guy would ask her to prom, but she had to settle for Richie. This definitely makes him look older and more distinguished." Richie rolled his eyes at Virgil. The other boy blinked, big chocolate brown eyes feigning innocence. "What?"

"Seriously, guys," Daisy sighed. "But Richie, if you're _sure_ about it—"

"I'm _sure_."

"—then I'm going to help Virgil with his tux." She hooked Virgil's arm with hers and dragged him down the aisle. Richie watched them stroll off in the reflection of the mirror, and was about to look away when Virgil looked over his shoulder, met Richie's eyes in the mirror, grimacing, mouthing _help me!_

Richie smirked back, and shifted his gaze back down to his suit.

The dark grey of his suit complemented the ensemble he'd chosen to wear underneath—a white vest with a champagne colored shirt, a black tie. It was a little mature, Daisy was right. The suit put at least a few years on him—but that was how he wanted to feel. Looking into the mirror, he wondered if he wasn't actually looking into the future—Richard Foley, 22 years old, an MIT graduate with a bachelor's—or even a _master's_, if he really wanted—in computer science, electrical engineering, molecular biology—maybe even phi beta kappa, going to work for the Real World. He wondered where he'd be, this Ralph-Lauren-suited person, if he'd be going by Richie, Richard, or who knew, maybe even _Dick _(that thought was frankly horrifying)—and if he'd still be wearing glasses or if he'd be a contacts sort of guy, four years from now.

He bit his lip, concentrated a little harder on the image of his face, watching it squint and relax, alternating, little wrinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes and around his mouth. This face—would it still be hidden from the world, behind Gear's helmet? He wondered if he'd have gone public, giving speeches to underprivileged kids and politicians, touring around on the lecture circuit. He wondered if people would care about what he had to say, if his opinion mattered, how many papers he would have published by then. Maybe he'd be sitting at a desk job, making a hundred grand a year, doing his thing as a researcher, consultant, or analyst for a private firm, the CIA, or the Department of Homeland Security—or maybe he'd still be riding the air currents on his jet boots, soaring behind Static—

Would he be alone?

Present Richie looked at future Richie, unknowing and unsure—future Richie looked back, his gaze just as lost, as if he couldn't believe that he could have been this person, so many years ago, a skinny teenager in a Ralph Lauren suit, shaking in a rented pair of Kenneth Coles.

His eyes grew hot, and Richie looked away from his reflection quickly, just as Daisy called his name and told him to come to see Virgil's tux.

Richie couldn't think of a better distraction. Of course, his super-sized brain wouldn't let him rest on that thought, though, and self-directed inquires flowered—_distraction? what's the context for your distraction? Why do you want to be distracted? What are the alternatives to being distracted by this?_ He walked over to the dressing room area, hands in his pockets, fingering at the lint, thoughts bursting in his head, noisy and annoyingly articulate, super-genius thoughts, frameworks, lines of questioning intent on divining the truth within the phenomenon.

Daisy waved her hands with a theatrical flourish, her grin plastered happily on her rosy face. It was obvious that she was crushing on Virgil to just about everybody except Virgil, and Richie was almost envious of her lack of self-consciousness.

"Well, what do you think?" She gestured proudly and almost possessively, as if she were the one who had designed and made the suit, and Richie was just there to admire her handiwork.

The tuxedo-wearer in question was outfitted in a black shirt with a dark grey vest underneath a fitted, creamy off-white suit. It brought out the rich chocolate hue of Virgil's skin.

"…I like the colors," Richie managed. His voice sounded abnormally flat, even to him.

Virgil tensed and Daisy immediately looked alarmed, looking back at Virgil as if she had spilled something on him without knowing it, or had ruined the effect in some way. "That's it?" She made a raspberry noise and stared playful daggers at Richie. "Oh come on. He looks great!"

And reluctantly, Richie let himself see the whole picture.

Virgil's broad shoulders carried the suit very well. His pose—unaffected, so it couldn't really be called a pose—seemed out of the pages of a men's fashion magazine, on the suave and self-assured side. Richie wondered absently if Virgil had been practicing this pose, if he was actually taking himself seriously with his hand oh-so-casually placed in his pocket like that.

For all his posturing, Virgil's face betrayed a hint of embarrassment, but chocolate-colored eyes stared defiantly into Richie's own as their gazes met. Richie felt his breath catch in his throat, his heart pound louder and faster.

_Distraction,_ his brain screamed, _what is—_

Richie blinked and in that instant that his eyes were closed, he was looking inward at the millions of Richies in his central cortex, slaving away ardently in front of their neuron-computers, inputting command lines and codes at frenetic paces, shouting back and forth to each other like stock brokers except they weren't watching the NYSE, they were watching the rise in his heart rate, body temperature, the expansion of his blood vessels, trying to regulate with rationality the speed at which his blood was driving through his circulatory system, everything humming madly.

_Shut up._

The humming ceased with an audible click. The Richies went on a coffee break. No more what-ifs, no more suppositions and hypotheses and solving the equations for all the variables. For one week.

He could manage that much, couldn't he?

Richie smiled slowly, letting himself all the movement of the muscles in his lips and his face, the way his left eyebrow was cocking upwards, the warm, base feeling that pooled in his chest and at the bottom of his stomach. He dragged his eyes away from Virgil's, followed the length of Virgil's tie into the vest, down the five cloth buttons, resting momentarily on the shiny silver of the belt buckle before moving down the sharp creases of the slacks, his gaze finally ending at the sheen of the black patent leather shoes. His head still tilted downwards, he flicked his gaze back up and met Virgil's eyes again, letting his smile widen imperceptibly. The other boy's face was flushed, his jaw clenched with tension.

"Well?" Daisy was getting impatient.

Richie shrugged nonchalantly. "It's a little flashy, but I like it."

Brushing past the two of them, Richie ignored Daisy's expression of confusion and Virgil's half-murmured, sotto voce _um, Rich?_

"I'm going to get changed—meet you by the registers. Oh, and you guys want to grab a smoothie after we pay?"

* * *

**Notes **

Thanks for tuning into Chapter 3 of _Disambiguation_! I'm so thrilled that there still is enthusiasm for this story and I'm very excited to be starting this up again. :) This chapter had been in hiatus for a _long_ time and I sincerely apologize for the two-year delay. I hope that writer's block doesn't hit again for a good while…

If you enjoyed this chapter, I would love so much to hear your feedback! I thrive on reviews and it definitely helps me to gauge the interest in the story so I can invest the time into writing quality future chapters. I promise that the next chapter will see some more action and drama between our boys... ;)

Cheers,

radishface


	4. Something Wrong

**Chapter 4: Something Wrong**

**

* * *

  
**

Richie spent an hour getting ready in the bathroom; washing and drying his hair, combing it to the left, combing it to the right, spiking it, tousling it, and finally settling on a half-combed, half-tousled version of his usual hairdo. He struck a pose in front of the mirror and gave his best come-hither expression to his reflection, which consisted of hardening his jaw, squinting his eyes just a tiny bit, pouting his lips, and trying his best not to flare his nostrils and wiggle his ears while the orchestrating the complicated choreography of his facial muscles.

He was mildly surprised when he opened the bathroom door and saw Virgil sitting on his bookcase, dressed in his tux and smelling of too much cologne. Actually, _mildly surprised_ was too mild an expression—Richie almost dropped the towel around his waist.

"Sorry to appear out of nowhere," Virgil grinned. Richie shook his head, gathering his wits and reaching into his closet, fishing out the tux. "Sharon made me get ready two hours ago so I 'wouldn't be late.' I had all this time to kill so I figure I'd come and help you get ready." He hopped off the bookcase. "Your mom let me in, by the way."

"There's not a lot that I need help with," Richie rolled his eyes.

"You'll be thanking your lucky stars that I was here to whisk your rental tux to safety when your house blows sky high."

Richie's eyes widened.

"Dude, I'm totally kidding." Virgil flashed his pearly whites.

"Better be," he muttered under his breath. "If my dad finds out you rigged explosives to our gas pipe, you're never going to see the light of day."

"Yeah, because I haven't dealt with some of the baddest Bang Babies in town," Virgil retorted.

Richie shrugged. "My dad could kick Ebon's ass if he put his head to it."

"And as well all know, he's been there, done that. And is that how you're doing your hair?" Virgil leaned in closely, meeting Richie's gaze head on, unfazed.

Richie leaned back a fraction. "Something wrong?"

"I dunno," Virgil took a step back, a hand on his chin. "It seems really… _cool_. I didn't know you had it in you, dude."

"I don't know what you could possibly be implying," Richie said lightly, "but you'd better quit while you're ahead."

"No offense intended," Virgil pouted. "I mean, I wish I could do something with my dreads instead of this—" he tugged at an errant lock. "But at least I washed my hair for the first time in weeks!"

Richie made a face as he shrugged on his undershirt, but composed his face as he popped out of the neckline. "That's really pleasant. I'll be sure to let Daisy know all about it."

"A sister knows how the weave works." Virgil was still busy inspecting his dreadlocks with a critical eye. "You take this out, I'd have a full on 'fro, man. I mean, a fro is a fro, but what was hot in the seventies doesn't exactly ring a chord with the ladies these days."

"How many times do I have to tell you that the nest on your head channels Bob Marley in an era _and_ neighborhood that doesn't celebrate Rastafarianism?"

Virgil affected a hurt expression. "Are you telling me my hair is irrelevant?"

"It's unique and very _you_ and don't let the bullies at school make fun of you for it," Richie sighed. "Now turn around. The Gear needs to put some pants on."

Virgil smirked and headed over to Richie's laptop. "Nothin' I haven't seen before, 'Gear.' I'm going to check my e-mail if it's okay with you."

"Whatever." Richie dropped the towel with more bravado than he actually felt, pulling on a pair of briefs and then the tuxedo pants in hurried motions.

He'd gotten over the initial shock of seeing Virgil in that creamy off-white tuxedo the other day, although he imagined that the flush on Daisy's face would last until the next year, a flush that only intensified when Daisy announced a few days later that she had found a dress that matched Virgil's in its aesthetic. Calm down, he'd wanted to tell her. You're not even having a baby and you're practically _glowing_. Of course, out of deference to the fact that the lady was his best friend's prom date, Richie had let basic etiquette stem the flow of sarcasm from his lips and had practiced posing unaffectedly in the mirror.

Speaking of which… "Virg, how do you do that pose?"

"What now?" Virgil twisted around.

"That casual, nonchalant, hand-in-the-pockets-just-walked-in-from-the-matinee pose." Richie shrugged on the tuxedo shirt, reveling in the feel of the cool, crisp cotton on his skin. "The one you've obviously been practicing since junior year for this very occasion."

Virgil laughed loudly, but the blush on his cheeks and his refusal to meet Richie's gaze betrayed him. "I could teach you, but I'd have to charge." Virgil intoned airily. "Trade secret. You see, while everybody else stands around awkwardly for the group photo, I've been practicing my posing. It comes in handy as a superhero, too—you gotta know your angles for the front page."

"Mmhm," Richie smirked, watching Virgil grow more and more flustered. "You're only a few steps away from being a superhero-slash-super_model_ at this rate. Oh wait, Bruce Wayne has already been there, done that."

"Appearing on the cover of _Fortune_ and _Forbes_ does not make you a supermodel, it just makes you a cover boy. In the meantime, I have modeled my tux for not only _you_, but Daisy, and soon all of our friends." Virgil stuck out his tongue and swung himself back around, shoulders slumping visibly. "What, a guy can't want to look good for his prom photo?"

Richie's fingers did up his tie on autopilot, while Richie's eyes settled on the back of Virgil's neck and his brain thought _yes, he __**does**__ look good. And you know it._

He choked back the thought. "It's not your wedding day, buddy. Save the 'angles' for the Dakota Daily. Now," he snapped his fingers at Virgil, who turned around on the swivel chair attentively. "Am I good to go?"

In the second that Virgil's eyes flickered up and down his suddenly hot-wired self, Richie could have sworn he saw something in the other boy's eyes that betrayed a certain light, a certain appreciation. His breath caught in his throat and he cursed himself inwardly, before he remembered that he hadn't done anything wrong, that Virgil hadn't done anything wrong, and that nothing was freaking _wrong _with any of this, damn it.

"Looks right to me," Virgil smiled enigmatically.

Richie blinked a few times before he stammered out a _thanks_, making his smile as innocent as it could be.

* * *

They had to wait almost half an hour for Thomas Kim to show up at Frieda's house, where they had planned to exchange corsages, boutonnieres, and take group pictures. Unfortunately, the poor kid was almost in tears—his father saying something about how he'd be grounded forever if he went to this ceremony of western debauchery, and finally letting him go on the condition that Thomas call home every fifteen minutes to update his parents on the so-called "bacchanalia."

His date was one of the "cool" kids who went against social protocol and asked Thomas out at the last minute. Thomas, who couldn't believe his good luck, had responded to her invitation with tears, a few self-loathing tantrums, and an invitation to play first-person shooter video games.

And apparently he was topping off his displays of affection with a corsage the size of Montana, which irked Madelyn to no end.

"That thing is disgusting," Madelyn sneered _sotto voce,_ while Richie slid the corsage onto her wrist. He'd opted for a simple white rose wreathed in baby's breath, if only because he'd been starved for other ideas. "It looks like she slashed her wrists, her arteries vomited tulips the color of bruises, and a time-space wormhole opened up right in that area so all of that crap is stuck in suspended animation around her arm."

Richie raised an eyebrow. "Time portals? Wormholes?" He chuckled. "You'd better not let anybody else hear you. You might be mistaken for a scifi junkie." Madelyn raised an eyebrow. "Imagine how that would ruin your street cred."

She cast him a long-suffering look and held up his boutonniere with a leery eye. "You start spreading rumors, Foley, and I start sticking this in places where the sun doesn't shine."

As she leaned in to pin the boutonniere on his lapel, Richie whispered in her ear, "but I agree with you. About the corsage. And the wormholes."

She looked up, almost alarmed. Richie was almost afraid he'd get stabbed (except once again, he had done nothing _wrong_) until she started laughing, a noisome, grating sound that brought everyone's eyes to them. Richie waved sheepishly and cleared his throat. "Nothing to see, folks. Madelyn here just had an aneurism, is all. Back to your respective pinnings!"

"God, Foley, you're such a nerd." Madelyn finished and stepped back to admire her handiwork. The white rose rested peacefully on his lapel, floating on a sprig of baby's breath. "But maybe you're not so bad after all. Just keep my night interesting and maybe I _won't_ make your prom a living hell."

Richie's gaze settled on Virgil and Daisy, who were laughing at something or another, looking a little too matchy-matchy in their formalwear for Richie's tastes. Suddenly filled with a spirit of competitiveness, Richie grinned briefly at Madelyn, who only looked expectantly back at him.

* * *

It was a half an hour ride downtown. Richie and Virgil had agreed beforehand that if any Bang Baby shenanigans were to happen tonight, they would defer to Adam and the DPD on all counts and would only intervene if he paged them. Richie kept his fingers crossed mentally, praying that the recent incident with the invisible Bang Baby would keep mutant activity at bay for a little while—and to tell the truth, he and Static hadn't been up to much crime fighting in the last few weeks. It could have been the heat wave that was making everybody a little more lazy than usual (Bang Babies included), though Richie vaguely recalled some scientific study that proved increased heat's positive influence on aggression.

Richie rode shotgun with Madelyn, while Virgil, Daisy, and Thomas (unfortunately separated from his date, for now) sat in the back. Halfway through the ride Thomas dialed home to update his father on his whereabouts and the rest of them had to look out the window and pretend that they weren't paying attention to his conversation.

"Thanks again for the ride, Madelyn," Virgil said somewhat out of the blue. Richie smirked—his friend was predictably trying to diffuse the tension in the car.

"Yeah, thanks so much," Daisy chimed in. Richie had to admire their efforts to extend the olive branch, and it seemed as though Madelyn was warming up.

"Whatever," she said, in a tone much more mellow than her usual high-pitched sneer. "You guys will just owe me one later."

They arrived at the front of the hotel with plenty of time to spare and spent the next half an hour or so taking pictures and mingling around the refreshments, all of them shying away from the near-empty dance floor with varying degrees of reluctance. The dance hall was decorated gaudily—just about everything sparkled or glimmered with some kind of glued-on glitter, but Richie had to hand it to the student council for their dedication and their perseverance to the "1001 Nights" theme—curtains draped around the pillow-furnished rest areas gave the illusion of a separate lounge, every table had hummus and pita, and the DJ was spinning a track that featured something with a sitar.

"Richie!" Madelyn's voice cut through the backlogging of his mind. "Cut it out and get with the program. Let's go dance."

"I, uh—" Richie looked at the dance floor, which had a few people congregating at the edges, teens shoving each other playfully toward the center. When did everybody move out towards the dance floor? He'd been feeling good about eating pita and hummus all night. "I… have to go to the bathroom."

Madelyn rolled her eyes and took a seat at one of the tables, fishing out a pita chip. "Lame, Foley. I'm giving you five minutes."

Dancing shouldn't be a hard thing, really, Richie reasoned with himself. It was a socially appropriate and acceptable way to express emotions in a ritualistic setting. Dance, from the French _danser_. Trust the French to come up with the word. But now _he_ had to _dance_ with the girl, actually take part in all of that—it wasn't just an objective study at this point. Sure, he might have a brain with the synaptic connections of a supercomputer, but he still hadn't given enough thought about the connection between girls, dancing, and prom.

"You're going to need to unzip if you're going to do your business."

Richie refrained from jumping ten feet into the air, but only barely. "Damn it, Virgil. Make some noise when you come in the room so you don't catch people by surprise!"

Virgil lined himself in front of the urinal next to Richie and unzipped. "I'm usually all about announcing who's in town, but I thought I'd let my alter_ego_ take a break tonight."

"Ha ha." Richie turned around and headed to the sinks; for some reason he didn't want to stand next to a pissing Virgil, even if it had never fazed him before. For some reason the tuxes just made everything so much more… formal. And it just didn't seem right to stand next to someone taking a whiz when they looked like they were going to get married.

"So what are you in here for?" Virgil zipped up and flushed; Richie tried not to do the same. Flush, that is. In his face. That is, turn red.

"Awkward," he said. The word summed up everything.

"Good move on your part. They're playing a slow song out there. You should have seen the look on Daisy's face, she was about to jump on this like a fat boy on cake."

Richie rolled his eyes. "Gee, I never thought you'd miss a chance to sweep a lady off her feet."

Virgil was adjusting his tie in the mirror, blithely ignoring Richie's sarcasm. "It's too soon, you know? You've got to give it a few songs before you jump into the eye contact, the hands on the shoulder, the sensual—" he thrust his hips forward— "bump and grind."

Richie buried his face in his hands. "You don't think Madelyn's expecting me to get hot and heavy with her? A little bit of awkward middle-school, three-feet-of-space-in-between dancing I can handle, like the last time I was at one of these things. You know, I should have been practicing _months_ in advance."

Virgil took him by the shoulders and shook him gently. "Listen to me. Guy-dancing isn't complicated—it's the girls who have to the sexy, wiggly moves. Just go with the music and _don't think about it too much_. Like so." Virgil swayed in time with the music that came in dimly through the bathroom door. "Just bend your knees a little bit."

"Like this?"

"No, no—" Virgil's hands came down on his arms, held them firmly. "Don't move your shoulders up and down like that, relax them. You're not trying to do the wave with your body. Elbows bent at ninety degrees, hands in loose fists."

"What do I do with my feet?"

"Just keep them planted."

Richie planted and looked up, stoic.

"Well—you're not a tree. You can move around a little bit. Keep it casual. Just shuffle."

So Richie kept his arms bent at ninety degrees, his hands in loose fists, relaxed his shoulders, and shuffled in time with the muffled music, copying Virgil's movements across from him.

"Excellent work, grasshopper." Virgil looked like a proud father, for all that Richie could see. "And the number one rule to remember for the novice dancer is to look like you don't care."

"I can keep it nonchalant," Richie grinned. "Cavalier, even."

"Perfect." Virgil was beaming. "You'll do great."

* * *

Richie was inaugurated onto the dance floor by a number of spirited techno pop pieces, which thankfully focused on propelling oneself into a frenetic up-and-down motion and required minimal body contact between him and Madelyn. By the time the DJ had switched to hip hop tracks, Richie was ready to breach the six-inch gap between Madelyn and himself and ease his way into a cavalier and nonchalant state of being.

His moves, so to speak, were far from great, but at least he wasn't a disaster. Richie cast a glance around, surveying the scene. There were still people hanging out at the edge of the dance floor, hesitant to make their way into the fray. A crowd was gathered a around a breakdancer and a furiously grinding couple doing things that Richie was pretty sure were against regulations for a high school event, and two girls locking lips for the benefit of the jocks and other exuberant male audience members. Thomas was doing something awfully complicated with his shoulders and his knees, looking like a discombobulated tidal wave, much to the dismay of his date, who was slowly inching away in an attempt to dissociate herself from him. Virgil, a few feet away in the crowd, looked like he was trying to contain his laughter.

They made eye contact for just a moment and Richie was about to wave, or smile, or _something_, before Daisy moved in front of Virgil and looped her arms around his shoulders.

He was glad, of course, that Virgil was having a good time. He was a bit jealous that Virgil was so free with himself, that he didn't have the same hang-ups that Richie did, with this whole dancing thing. After all, if there was one thing Virgil lacked that other teenagers had, it was a debilitating self-consciousness. At this point in their high school careers, Virgil was comfortable enough with himself—in both of his forms—that come battlefield or dancefloor, he'd still have the same confidence, the same easiness about him. Richie was envious, in a way, of Virgil's freedom—the way Virgil let Daisy put her hands on him, the way they leaned into each other, the way they were looking at each other with half-lidded eyes—

Richie shook his hand and turned back to Madelyn. Who had been watching him the whole time. Richie blanched.

"Geez, Foley," she muttered, and he had to strain to hear her over the music. "If you were going to be such an absent date I might as well have just come by myself." Her words held no barb—she looked almost genuinely disappointed.

Richie was filled with an abrupt emotion, suddenly—was it anger?—and reached out to grab her hips, pulling her close to him as the next song came on. He was suddenly filled with a confidence that hadn't been there before, a sureness cascading through his body that seemed to have come out of nowhere. He was channeling the music, a vessel of motion and emotion, and concentrated on the feel of the music echoing loudly within his chest and the feel of Madelyn pressed up against him. She registered surprise, stiff at first, but then settled easily into the flow of things, running her hands up and down his arms and grinding sensuously on him, her lips slightly parted and forehead damp with sweat.

The song ended, and they stood still for a moment as the tempo changed and the DJ switched songs to something cheesy and upbeat—some remix of a kid's song. Madelyn tore herself almost immediately away.

"I didn't mean for you to get all up close and personal," she snapped, still breathing hard, avoiding his eyes.

Richie felt himself growing embarrassed, but fought the urge to apologize. "You weren't complaining before."

Madelyn fumed for a second, visibly struggling with what she wanted to say. "Oh, forget it. I'm impressed you had it in you." She laughed, a little forced. "Let's take a break and sit down—I'll see you at the table? I'm just going to head to the bathroom really quick."

"Sure," Richie said, feeling himself relax. "Oh—Madelyn—" She turned around expectantly. "I mean… you weren't uncomfortable, were you? I'm sorry if—"

"It's okay." Her smile was brighter now. "I'll be right back."

He stood on the edge of the dance floor, still a little shaky from what had just happened. What had gotten into him? For once, he'd just wanted to get close to—somebody, something. He'd liked the feeling of Madelyn up against him, the friction between their bodies, the way she'd looked when she was breathing hard, her chest rising up and down and her hands grasping at his shoulders. Out of control. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Out of control. Was that all it was—?

Somebody bumped him hard from behind, and he would have fallen flat on his face had not two hands reached out to steady him.

"Watch where you're--" He turned around and saw Virgil. "Oh, it's you."

The other boy was looking at him with an inscrutable expression—or perhaps it was the dim lighting. Richie couldn't quite place it.

"Taking a break?" Virgil asked.

"Yeah, just," Richie shrugged. "Waiting for Madelyn to get back from the bathroom."

"Yeah, I—" Virgil shrugged too, for no apparent reason. "Daisy just went, too. Girls."

"Hope they're not talking about what bad dancers we are," Richie forced a chuckle. "Or I mean, me, that is. You're not too bad. I mean." He sucked in a breath, wondering why his thoughts were all jumbled. "How's it going with Daisy?"

"It's all right." Virgil sounded a bit distant. "I don't know, I just don't think I can—" And then he said something that was interrupted by a sudden blast of music.

"What?" Richie raised his voice, but Virgil was already stepping back and shaking his head.

"Never mind." Virgil raised a hand, haltingly, as if to place it on Richie's shoulder. It came to rest behind the other boy's neck, thumb brushing briefly over Richie's jaw. "You doing okay?"

Richie blinked a few times, avoiding Virgil's eyes and trying not to lean into his touch. There was something wrong here. The dim lighting, the pounding music, his body feeling electric and damp with sweat and slightly shaking, still, he couldn't make an objective observation of what was happening. No, he couldn't quite place it. "Yeah, I—"

Their eyes met briefly, Virgil's a faint glimmer in the darkness. No, Richie could not read the situation at all. Couldn't save himself.

"Your date's back." Virgil smiled and released his grip, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Hey, Madelyn."

"Boys," she looked slightly more composed, her hair fixed and sweat wiped off her forehead. She looked at Richie, slightly inquisitive and almost predatory, protective. "I've got Thomas and a few of the others who want to head out after the dance is over. I was thinking, my place?" She looked self-conscious for a split second before it was masked by a veneer of self-assurance and the regular Madelyn haughtiness. "That is, if you baby boys don't have _curfews_."

Virgil raised an eyebrow. "That's hospitable of you." He glanced sidelong at Richie. "My dad is cool with it—he knows it's a special night. I don't know about your parents, Rich—"

"I'll just tell them I'm staying at your place," Richie blurted out. It seemed crucial to him to see where this night would lead, to stretch it out as long as possible, to follow through. He loosened his tie, suddenly imbued with a new sense of urgency. "After all, what could happen?"

* * *

**Notes**

I'm so happy that this story is so well-received! I especially want to thank everybody who took the time to say a few words of encouragement. If you like the story or have any concrit, I'd love to hear from you; please keep the feedback coming, I thrive off it. ;) As for what's going to happen next time... let's just say that things start getting a little more complicated for our heroes. Until next time!

Cheers,

radishface


	5. Slackened Ties

**Notes**

Hope you all enjoy this chapter! Had a lot of fun writing it, though had to put Richie through all kinds of hell before I could call it a finished chapter. D: Feedback and comments are all very very much appreciated, and I have to be honest and say that I'm thrilled with all of you who have read and supported the story since it debuted almost two years ago. If I could distribute cookies over the internet I would totally do it.

Now crossposted on my livejournal, for those of you who prefer to read stuff on that platform instead. Other chapters will be coming, but for now the permalink to my fics, fanart, etc is [ **community . livejournal . com / daikontime /** ].

* * *

**Chapter 5: Slackened Ties**

**

* * *

  
**

It wasn't just "Thomas and a few others" like Madelyn had said. Looking back, Richie realized that he really should have expected something like this.

The place Madelyn called "home" was a three stories of swanky, modern beach house, all clean lines and mood lighting, and her parents—wherever they were—apparently were open to the use of their house as an after-hours gathering for half the senior class. There must have been at least a hundred fifty Dakota High students in the whole place, half of them in the house and half of them taking advantage of the white sand beach that was Madelyn's back yard.

"This is _gorgeous,_" Daisy murmured, as Madelyn led them on a grand tour of the house. _This set of cherry oak cabinets is actually what they call a "Chinese apocathery." My parents got it in Beijing last year when they were visiting President Hu Jintao. _Apparently the party had gotten started a little while ago and the lady of the house—Madelyn, that is—had carefully orchestrated it so that she'd be welcomed with fanfare to her own party. _Oh, this vase? My dad says it's a genuine Etruscan piece, but I'm convinced it's an 18__th__-century French replica. _Richie was torn between the desire to gawk at all the general opulence of Madelyn's beach house and the desire to roll his eyes at his date's self-aggrandizing behavior. _We had the pool put in a few months ago, but my mom couldn't stand swimming in the cold, so now we have a retractable greenhouse roof so you can swim at three in the morning and it'll still feel seventy degrees._

Their crowd scattered, met up with others, people that they were surprised to see, people they normally wouldn't see. Madelyn had amassed a wide range of cliques—the Asian nerds, looking surprisingly put together in their crisp shirts and tuxedo pants, the wrestling team, unsurprisingly engaging in an arm-wrestling contest on the kitchen island, the It Girls who were all dressed in skintight satin gowns and giving Madelyn looks of approval in varying levels. For some reason, it was as if senior year _had_ really kicked in, finally, and everybody was moving on beyond the old high school tropes, converging into some sort of inter-class unity. Richie supposed it was also because everybody was just having a good time.

Thomas had been long abandoned by his date but was engaged in some conversation with Frieda by the patio bonfire. They approached and Thomas stood up straighter, eagerly waving them over.

"Where'd Joanne go?" Richie found himself blurting out, despite a sharp look from Daisy.

Thomas looked embarrassed and nodded ambivalently. "Frieda was just telling me she saw her hooking up with one of the wrestlers—well, not that it really matters, I guess I was holding her back long enough…"

"Anyway," Daisy chimed in, sparing Thomas the awkwardness of having to explain any further, "how has your night been so far?" She looked at Frieda.

"Yeah, we haven't seen you at all," Virgil said.

Frieda looked slightly embarrassed, glaring playfully at Daisy. "Well, as you know, my choice of date was a bit… how do I put it? _Risky._"

Daisy sighed. "So where'd Francis go now?"

Richie and Virgil shot each other alarmed looks at the same time. _Hotstreak?_ Richie could feel his eyes bugging as he mouthed at Virgil, _wasn't he expelled?_

Virgil looked a little more in shock at the fact that Frieda had succumbed to the ministrations of his old freshman year romantic rival, more than anything else. "You came with _Francis?_"

Frieda looked confused at his outburst, and then defensive. "He's changed a lot since freshman year, okay? He said he was out getting a few drinks, and that he'd be back soon—"

Virgil puffed out his chest, glaring at nothing in particular. "Probably out stealing a car, if I know him well enough."

Frieda looked defensive, but not angry. "Look, he was really sweet when he asked me—"

"The only sweet thing that kid could care about is how sweet his next ride is going to be—"

"Virg—" Richie and Daisy both started, before Madelyn's voice cut them off.

"There, there, my vanilla soul." She was speaking to Virgil, patting him on the head and ruffling his dreadlocks—as best as anybody could ruffle them, anyway. "Don't get your panties in a twist. Some of us do better than others, in the long run." And she looked pointedly at him before taking Richie by the arm in one smooth motion. "Hey Foley, come upstairs with me for a second."

She had an iron grip on his arm as she led him up the stairway, the other hand pulling up her dress so she wouldn't trip on the hem. Richie stumbled to keep up after her, and was surprised to suddenly find himself in her room with the door shut behind them and Madelyn fumbling around in her closet.

"Where is it… ah-ha! Here you are!" She turned around and flourished a dark red bottle of—Richie squinted.

"Is that alcohol?" He squeaked, and then wondered if it was _gauche_ to appear shocked.

"I've been saving it for tonight." Madelyn grinned at him. Richie thought that the impish look suited her. "Snuck it from my parents' wine cellar last month. I thought that maybe we could split it."

"The whole thing?" Richie felt his eyes bugging again.

She rolled her eyes. "We can invite the others up in a little bit. You're my date, right? I figured—" She pursed her lips, as if hesitant, or embarrassed. "Look, I just figured you weren't going to do anything romantic, so I might as well... Not that this is—" she caught herself again, and glared at Richie. "I'm not trying to wine or dine you! Don't get the wrong idea!"

"I'm not so sure—"

"It's just _wine,_ dummy," Madelyn said hotly. "What, your parents never let you have any on the holidays?"

Richie had to contain a laugh while reminding himself over and over that Bruce wasn't going to come flying through the window and trussing him up like a goose to turn him over to the police for underage drinking. Well, technically it wasn't even underage drinking yet—they were just _looking_ at (and holding) a bottle of pinot noir.

Madelyn's face was a mixture of shyness and anticipation and indignant fire, and Richie _did_ laugh. He felt warm from his head to his toes, special, and _untouchable_, almost. He could sense that she wanted him to be here—needed him to be here, in some way, with her hand gripping the wine bottle like she was holding onto it for dear life, like she didn't care what Richie thought of this when they both knew very well that she did.

The words were on the tip of his tongue—_Sorry, Madelyn, I don't drink_— but suddenly she looked so sad, so melancholy, so vulnerable, and Richie knew that she had really worn her heart on her sleeve the moment she brought out the bottle of wine for them to share, that she'd wanted to strike a truce between them.

"You're much more mellow these days," he said, taking the bottle out of her hands, absently reading the label. "Whatever happened to the high-strung class president candidate we all used to know and love?"

She looked sharply at him. "Going through all kinds of crazy mutant shit will do that to you."

Richie returned her look. She smiled at him again, almost wanly, as if remembering something she'd rather not be thinking about—he felt guilty for bringing it up.

He took a deep breath. _Batman has better things to do than patrol a teen party,_ he told himself. _He's a busy man. Probably sitting busily in his big leather chair right now, looking over expense reports and planning the latest way to pimp out the Batmobile. And Virgil-- _His hand went in his pocket and he pulled out a multipurpose knife, whipping out the bottle opener widget with a little more gusto than necessary. _He can just hang out with Daisy all evening, just like he's been waiting to. _

_Whatever._ He drove the point of the uncorker into the tip of the bottle, watching with some satisfaction as Madelyn's eyes lit up.

"Cheers."

* * *

There was the bottle, now half-full—Madelyn had taken a _good_ bottle of wine, not a cheap, two-dollar kind Richie had often seen stacked miles high in the alcohol section of the grocery store, and there had been no tannis or bite at all to the liquid as he swished it around in his mouth as Madelyn had instructed, feeling the heat and tanginess in his mouth spread to the other regions of his body, warm and golden and thick all at once. It helped, of course, that they were almost lying prone on her bed, her comforter feeling a mile thick and them sinking it into it pleasantly, like birds on a warm cloud.

"There are five S's to wine drinking," she said, her grin a little bit loopier than usual. Actually, Richie couldn't remember her ever smiling like that, and decided that he didn't dislike it. "There's sight—" she held her glass up to the light, and Richie mirrored her movement. The wine glimmered a faint, washed-out burgundy.

"I always thought that darker wines were better," Richie thought, and then did a mental double-take. Actually, that wouldn't make any sense, if his basic knowledge of winemaking served him correctly—the longer a wine was aged, the more precipitation would settle at the bottom, lending it a lighter color when it was corked—

"Actually, older wines are lighter," Madelyn said. "I dunno why, but that's just what I remember from the tour I took with my parents."

"And what are the other S's?"

"There's—" Madelyn squinted at the glass, still held up to the light, and brought it down. "Well, there's swish, where you swerve it around in your glass like so," she demonstrated. "Like you see them do on television. I think it releases the aromas or somethin', lets the wine breathe a little."

"Let me guess what the third one is—smell?"

"Yeah, followed by sip, and savor." Madelyn set down her wine glass and held up the bottle. "God, I hope my parents don't realize that this is gone. I think I took one this from their vintage cabinet." She giggled. "Oops."

"Just fill it up with grape juice and let it sit for a while," Richie chuckled. "It'll probably taste even better when they open it."

She stuck out her tongue at him and refilled their glasses. "I guess it would have helped if I had told you this stuff earlier— it's almost gone, anyway."

Richie squinted, eyes unfocusing, then focusing again. "Weren't we—supposed to invite the others up?"

"Mmm—" Madelyn leaned back against the headboard and closed her eyes. "I didn't really wanna, anyway. Frieda is such a know-it-all, and Daisy is—seriously naïve, or something. God, I hate girls like that." She cracked open one eye. "I know they're your friends, but I have to be honest with you."

Richie couldn't find it in him to protest, and let the words wash over him instead, a small smile settling on his face. A minute passed, and then he was aware of a shifting movement beside him and suddenly there was a shadow over him. His eyes opened wide, heart thumping loudly in his chest. He wondered if she could hear.

"Plus," Madelyn said, her words gusting over his mouth and nose as she leaned forward, "I'm having fun with _you_."

He registered the movement too late and then her lips were on his, warm and wet and sticky from the wine, and he was frozen and didn't know what to think, his mind a perfect blank. She didn't venture any further, either, lips just resting lightly on his, as if waiting for something.

She rolled off after what seemed like an eternity, and Richie released a breath that he didn't know he'd been holding. "Um," he said, unintelligently.

"Thought I'd try," Madelyn replied. She sounded sullen.

"I—" What did people _say_ in situations like this? Richie was racking his brains for the correct response, the right script, the one that people were supposed to use, and he thought that it might sound something like, "at least we're still friends," but he didn't really know what to think at this point, his mind only recovering gradually from the white precipice it was balanced on earlier, and—

"There's someone else."

Madelyn turned around curiously, still prone on the bed, and Richie wondered why _he_ hasn't sat up, either. Blamed his incapacity on the wine, and then realized what he had just said. He hadn't had a lobotomy as far as he could remember, but wished that he did, so he could blame the brain-to-mouth disconnect on _that._

"Who?" Madelyn was curious, of course.

"Somebody."

More intently, "do I know her?"

Richie flinched. "Well, I mean—"

"Who is it?" Madelyn was back up now, almost jittering with excitement. "_C'mon_, I'm not going to tell anybody."

"Nothing's ever going to happen," Richie said, before he could catch himself. He sounded adamant. "So—"

"So all the more reason you _should_ make something happen." She flopped off the bed, giving him a look that was somewhere between a glare and a smirk. "Like I did just now."

"Do you—er—" Richie left the other words unspoken, _do you like me? Or something?_ The thought was unfathomable, but she seemed to pick up on the words without him having to say them out loud.

"You look good tonight," she offered by way of explanation. Madelyn's voice was scathing but Richie sensed that the compliment was sincere. More thoughtfully, "well, I mean, half the school looks decent tonight."

He didn't even bother to try and disguise the disdain in his voice. "So you'd try to hook up with half the school like you did with me?"

"You're not getting out of this one." Another smirk. "Who's the lucky lady, Richie? And why didn't you ask her out instead of me?"

Something bumped against the door outside Madelyn's room, and whomever it was laughed, giggled, and shuffled away. Richie could hear the beat of the music shaking the whole house, coming up into the room in quiet, muffled pulses, all washed-out bass and the humming white noise of everybody talking at once.

"Let me guess—" Madelyn sounded sympathetic now. "Already taken?"

"You could say that," Richie exhaled. He swirled the remaining wine in his wineglass and downed it in one shot. A little duller, "it sucks."

"Do tell." Her voice sounded like it was coming from very far away, through oceans.

"I just—" The thumping on the door, louder this time. Madelyn glared abstractly in that direction before refocusing her attention on Richie. "Day in and day out, it's like—they just expect me to be this friend, but they have no idea how I feel, and on top of that there are all these other issues—it just ends up being so complicated I wonder how I even get through the day." He felt like he was being a bit melodramatic, so he hastily added, "sometimes."

"Well!" She flopped off the bed, hands on her hips. "If you're looking to make a move without consequences, now's the night."

Richie is mildly assured, but catches himself and forces an appropriate reaction. "You mean—" he blanches.

"Look, I'm drunk, and I can blame it all I want on the alcohol." She grinned, and gestured at the two of them. "See, no awkwardness, right?"

Richie's expression was wry. "I think there's plenty."

"Well, that might be because _you're_ an exceptionally awkward person." Madelyn stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry, then reached over to pull him physically out of bed. "Now get over it. We have a party to attend."

* * *

It's loud downstairs, louder than the fight a few months ago with a Bang Baby who called himself "Sonic" whose specialty was blowing out other people's eardrums temporarily with his mentally-produced, high-frequency wavelengths. Not that it was a skill that boded well for petty crimes—Sonic allied himself with a gang, but being a particularly scrawny sort, was left behind once the going got tough. Richie almost felt sorry for him until the Bang Baby had done his thing and everything had felt like slow motion going by all of a sudden because all the sound had been blown out. He remembered the way Virgil was gesturing and yelling frantically at him as he'd stood there, dazed and unable to hear anything except for the mute echo of the blood pounding through his head.

It's kind of how he felt now, the alcohol having kicked in fully and Richie feeling a rosy red sort of warmth and weight spreading in his veins with every step he took down the stairs. Virgil was at the bottom in a conversation with somebody from the school paper, but looked up anxiously when he saw Richie, worry clear in his eyes.

Richie felt a ridiculous thrill of glee at that, felt it reflected on his already-red face, and then was further embarrassed by the fact that he hadn't even made any effort to straighten himself out before he left Madelyn's room—

Madelyn, two steps ahead of him, already putting a finger on Virgil's lips, effectively shushing him. "Now now, darling," she slurred. "We were just having a little bit of fun. No need to judge."

"Don't listen to her, Virg, we were just—um—"

Virgil looked very disconcerted, glaring back and forth between Madelyn and Richie and then some, and Madelyn just tittered and wandered off into the crowd, all trailing fingers and flirtatious glances, and Richie supposed that he shouldn't feel whatever thing that felt like jealousy was currently manifesting in the regions of his chest but she _had_ just kissed him and now she was off ready to hook up with some other—

"I was worried about you," Virgil said, and then took two steps back. "Erm, Rich—" and now the other boy was the one who was flushing, possibly with anger, but through this red miasma Richie could distinguish _nothing_—"have you been _drinking_?"

"Just having a good time," Richie parlayed in what he hope was a smooth manner, leaning back on the banister and nearly tripping over a stair. Virgil started forward, as if to catch him, but held himself back. "You're looking tense, yourself."

"Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about," Virgil said, biting his lip. "But if you're drunk, I mean—"

"Virg, it was _wine_." He felt more exasperated than he sounded, and smiled winningly at the other boy, ignoring the way his heart was pounding even louder now and he was sure he was as red as a tomato but just do like Madelyn said, right, and blame everything on the _wine_. "I'm sure that you've had some when you celebrate—your birthday—"

Darker skin flushed even darker. "My birthday?"

"Holidays, whatever." Richie squinted at his hands, wondering when they became so… fuzzy around the edges. "It's too noisy here," he said instead, and took Virgil by the arm, relishing the way he could curl his fingers around a strong, muscled forearm without fear of retribution from—whatever it was. Virgil himself, maybe. Absence of fear and from fear and he was feeling so _good_ and maybe it was because Virgil wanted to tell him something, _something_, so he leaned in closer than usual and said in Virgil's ear, almost secretively, "let's go talk somewhere else."

* * *

They found a spot on the far side of the pool, a gazebo overlooking the ocean, and from this distance Richie could see the wavering lights of a few distant ships sailing out at sea against the murky blackness of the ocean, occasionally interrupted by the cresting crush of a wave colliding with the shore, audio of beaten sand and water and clams stuck in their shells coming to mind, his tongue caught in his throat and his sudden wish for the tide to come and sweep him under complete and absolute.

"Rich?"

"Just go—"

He tries again, catching his breath, resurrendering himself to this tangle that some people like to call life.

"You should go tell her, then." His smile, he's sure, is red, like the rest of him, but in the dark it will be hard to tell. Their backs are to the light, after all.

Virgil replies brightly, sunshine lost to the dark around them, "you think?"

"I don't know, man. Whatever you want to do. Hey," he gasps, but it sounds like his normal voice. "I—promised Madelyn I'd—well, I should go find her—"

"Thanks, Rich," a hand catches him by the shoulder, and he looks back fleetingly, only to reassure Virgil that he's still engaged in this, that everything's normal between them, of course.

"No problem." He spins around and doesn't look back, but he knows that Virgil's not looking at him, anyway, he's looking down somewhere at his shoes or out at the waves, all lovelorn and unsure and pained at his confession and _god_, they've never been so close together, have they, or so far apart? And Richie won't admit it to himself no he won't no he won't.

* * *

He finds Madelyn standing in the middle of some group of athletes—not footballers, so Richie doesn't feel intimidated when he ushers his way into the center and tap her on the shoulder and tip his head back in the universal sign for _shots_, watching her eyes brighten as she excuses herself.

One of the footballers—and Richie's apprehension returns, a little, but at this point he's feeling nothing and everything so keenly that he just pushes through—has brought a few handles of vodka and they sit lazily, gleamingly on the kitchen table. Madelyn runs to a cabinet and wrangles through for a set of glasses, setting them down on the table with satisfaction, glass slamming sharply and flatly against the granite countertop. The vodka gets poured and it's lukewarm and heavy down his throat, all of this happening at the same time that they're raising their glasses and making toasts to the coming summer and the promise of beachy days and Thomas Kim hooking up with some girl in a corner at the other end of the room and Madelyn, their wonderful hostess, and the loudest cheer of all for being seniors—

He doesn't care, doesn't care, but he tips his head back anyway and takes the shot, all aggressive camaraderie and things that have fermented for too long—alcohol and feelings and thinking—

Madelyn stops after shot number two but Richie plugs on into his fourth, fifth, drink-for-drink with an alpha-male athlete who isn't backing down yet, brow furrowed in wet, sweaty concentration, and Richie's not Irish for nothing, he's seen the way his dad chugs beers. Somewhere a part of him tells him, rationally and surprisingly composed, given the chaotic circumstances inside and around him, that this is killing brain cells and he will be what they call _too hungover_ to finish the Z-Machine schematics and all the costume modifications he was planning to do this weekend—

Doesn't care, doesn't care, _doesn't care_

Except when he finally calls it quits, the alpha male footballer across from him raising his hands in victory and the rest of them hooting and hollering and some of them even congratulating Richie, _didn't know you had it in you, bro_, and _thought you were all booksmarts, man,_ he feels something like pride mixing with the sickness and the emerging tide in his throat, and asks Madelyn, please, where's the bathroom on this floor?

_Just right around the corner on your left after the hall, _Madelyn says, and mentions that she'll come check up on him in a few minutes. And so, when he turns the corner, he sees Virgil kissing Frieda, and then

_Doesn't care, doesn't care, doesn't care _

* * *

For a moment everything is clear and hazy, like tunnel vision. Richie hears a roaring in his ears, his heartbeat thumping distantly, like a lonely giant's footsteps through snow, journeying up a mountain, braving the wind and blizzards. Everything is whirling around him and he tastes the sickening sweet-pungent taste of alcohol rising in his throat, a backwards trajectory. It's one thing, he thought, to be able to form an intelligent hypothesis based on facts and research-backed extrapolations and conservative speculations, and another thing to see the phenomenon in real time, real space.

Richie runs to the kitchen and vomits in the sink, much to the chagrin and surprise of two lacrosse players, who have the decency to look worried. "Yo," one of them puts his hand on Richie's shoulder tentatively. "You okay, dude?"

He coughs a few times, refusing to be controlled by the stinging in his throat, the wicked, pinching feeling behind his eyes. "Yeah," his voice is hoarse. "I'll be fine. Just had to get it out of my system."

"Take it easy, Foley," the other one says, and for a second Richie was deeply, unapologetically touched by the gesture, he doesn't even know this guy's name, and back at school he knows that they won't even talk to him, these lacrosse guys, moving in totally different circles and all that, but it's this same convergence toward inter-clique unity that's causing this concern right now, because Virgil and Frieda have finally gravitated into each other's orbits after four long years of pining—well, at least on Virgil's part—Virgil, who had never forgotten his first, after all, and it makes Richie's head spin like a neutron star, caught in the middle of it all, and just like that he feels sick to his bones and just like that he's vomiting into the sink again, one hand on the faucet to wash the evidence of his shame away, the other hand gripping his own hair, as if trying to rouse his brain back to its rightful place, physically reminding him to _get a fucking grip on himself_.

A hand on his back, stroking up and down, soothingly. Richie doesn't have to guess who it is—Virgil has been sneaking up on him all night, entering stealthily when Richie least expects it; showing up in his room the day he got his college acceptance letter, perched on top of his dresser as he got out of the shower, creeping up on him in the bathroom at prom to show him how to dance. Forget about stealth fighters, Virgil is a fucking stealth sniper, triggering Richie's feelings and wearing away at his self control and the barriers of his denial like a dull knife scratching at the string that keeps his hands tied together, _don't touch_. A hostage is escaping him, once tied up and now beyond the walls of prison, finally free to feel with a vengeance, except it's raining torrents, mud everywhere, the taste of vomit, gravely and orange-red, still sharp in his throat.

He turns around to face Virgil, who wears a look of desperate concern on his handsome face. It's a handsome face in every regard—high cheekbones, a straight nose, bright, kind eyes, full lips, the very picture of morality and virtuous behavior. Richie is shaking with anger, breath coming harshly and head turned away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, despising the way he must smell right this moment. He pushes away Virgil's hand and takes two steps back, trying to calm down, but every nerve in his body is jangling with embarrassment, resentment, fury,

_betrayal._

"How fucking ridiculous _are _you," he barks, the blood rushing to his head, a pit in his stomach. His eyes are filling with tears, hot points of mortification in his vision, not knowing whom he was saying it to, whether he's accusing Virgil or everybody else in the house, for being complicit in this, if he's talking to himself.

"Rich—"

"Don't." He keeps his voice low because he doesn't trust himself to speak any louder, otherwise the rumble might become a roar, and _god_, he's still a traitor to himself, he just wants to get out of here before he says anything else, but he can't stop himself. "You can't do that to Daisy," Eyes wild, flickering madly around the room, trying to find her in the crowd, his impromptu ally. They both feel the same way, and it isn't wrong to stick up for his friend, feeling for her now, paying the price for his bitterness all this week, for all the sullen looks he'd been giving her as she fawned openly over Virgil, as she'd put her arms around him for the slow songs, for the way she picked out her dress to match his tuxedo, for the cologne she'd bought him for his birthday that Richie despised—they were in this together, all of it. Virgil was supposed to be—_fuck_, Virgil was supposed to be the fucking _defender of the city_. He isn't even drunk, look at him, standing up like a fucking paragon of justice, concern unclouded by alcohol or anything, no, this is just Virgil, same old Virgil, one hundred percent Virgil, what you see is what you get Virgil, no hidden feelings or secret wants or skeletons in his closet, no _closet,_ even, looking at Richie like they are the only people in the world.

His sincerity is unbearable.

Richie stumbles away from the sink, wanting desperately to sink into the whirlpool of emotions and sensations threatening to envelop him, still fighting it at the same time. "You're supposed to be with—with—" he hiccoughs and spits into the sink, feeling dirty, unclean, crumbling all the way through. "_Daisy_."

"Rich, you're—you're drunk." Virgil doesn't even look alarmed as he delivers the accusation, just worried, and tense, and—_scared_. Richie's lip curls in half-sadistic amusement.

There are a few people starting to look their way now, varying degrees of concern and curiosity, and a bark of laughter escaped him, abrasive and mirthless. "Nice one, Sherlock. And what's _your_ excuse?"

"Come on." Virgil purses his lips, the fear gone from his eyes, looking every bit the strong, resolute hero. He slings Richie's arm around his shoulders and begins to walk, and Richie tries to walk with him, but his legs are sluggish and they won't move, _don't want to _move. He resists the feel of Virgil's body behind him, warm and firm and welcoming. This, all for him. It's too much. "We're getting out of here."

Madelyn's face comes into view for a minute, almost despairing, definitely worried, and Richie tries his best to smile reassuringly at her, but feels his head drop onto Virgil's shoulder, head swimming inside and out, Virgil close enough for him to smell, Daisy's cologne had worn off now and Virgil just smells like Virgil, like any other boy, clean and like soap. He felt himself breathe harshly, in and out. In and out. It was as if he couldn't breathe enough to satisfy his lungs.

_Overwhelmed._

* * *

"What's the matter with him?" Madelyn put one hand on Richie's forehead, as if feeling for a fever. Virgil pulled back a step, his expression pained and angry at the same time.

"I'm taking him home," he said. "He needs to go home."

"What the hell did you do to him?" Madelyn's head snapped up and she sneered at Virgil. "He was fine right before he went to go—"

Virgil blinked a few times. "I found him by the sink—"

But Madelyn wasn't listening to him. She had her hands on Richie's cheeks, patting his face gently in an effort to get him to open his eyes. "You're such a baby," she murmured balefully. "A few shots and you're completely out of it." She shook her head and leaned in to speak into his ear. "I'm going to call you tomorrow, okay? You be good now."

"Hi," Richie slurred, cracking one eye open to look at Madelyn. "I…mm—fine."

"Remember what we talked about, okay?" She smiled at him. "If you black out I'm going to kill you."

Richie's face was dazed, but he nodded as if he knew what she was talking about. "Got…it." He suddenly wrenched himself out of Virgil's grip and into Madelyn's, almost knocking her over. "I saw—" he said, and Madelyn's eyes widened at his next words.

Virgil watched something flash in Madelyn's eyes—and then that white-hot gaze turned on him, and he had to will himself not to flinch. "We have to go," Virgil pulled Richie back. The blond fell into his arms, compliant, body limp like a doll's. He looked helplessly at Richie before glaring at Madelyn. "You're lucky I'm not calling the cops on this party. Look at what you've done to him."

Her lips curled in disgust. "Look at what _you've_ done to him, you fucking self-righteous prick," she shouted. "You're lucky that he still trusts you enough to lean on you!"

Virgil gritted his teeth, trying to contain the sparks that threatened to fly out of his head. "What do you know about anything, huh?"

"More than you _think_, Hawkins," she snapped coldly. "Just take him and try not to kill him with your obliviousness, okay?"

"Kill—what? I don't even know what he's upset about!"

"Sure, Hawkins, blame it on something else." Madelyn sneered. "It's so like boys to shift the blame like that. Oh, it's that time of the month. Oh, it must be the alcohol. You have no idea what—"

"_You_ should just mind your own business," Virgil said hotly. "Don't act like you know Richie like I do, not when you only started talking to him a week ago."

Madelyn's face sunk in vulnerability, but it was gone in an instant. "Just take care of him tonight," she muttered, suddenly deflated. "Make sure he drinks lots of water, even if he just pukes it out later."

"I got it," Virgil said briskly, and turned around, heading for the door. "Come on, Richie—"

"—just one step at a time."

* * *


End file.
